Long Tabs Poems
Long Tabs Poems. Below are the most popular long Tabs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tabs poems by poem length and keyword.
They warn about the mess inside,
The clutter in my head,
The sheer accumulated grime
Where thoughts are left unmade.
I stress about some unpaid bills,
Then let the dust repose,
A muddy swamp of open tabs,
And piles of laundry clothes.
I thought about a sandwich crust
I dropped a week ago,
Still lingering in a dark abyss
Where no one dares to go.
A soil of half-remembered names,
And crumbs of useless facts,
Unswept, unscrubbed, unpolished thoughts,
And overdue tax acts.
So if you say my mind is foul,
You’ve hit the nail right squarely—
It hasn't seen a broom or mop,
And frankly, cleans up rarely.
You thought I meant a different dirty?
Get your head out of the gutter!
My brain is just a dusty room
Full of trash and clutter.
There was man named Garrison,
and he lived the good life,
flush with that big trust-fund money,
he hungered for the night,
for booze and bodies tight,
the finest clubs were his domain,
his bar tabs were truly insane,
his one-night stands were numerous,
the affairs always light.
He was technically a lawyer
in his father’s old firm,
was kept on mostly for his name,
got more money to burn,
deserved not what he ‘earned,’
his condo was a bachelor pad,
wis many friends thought it was rad,
the women came and women went,
an ever-constant churn.
But Garry saw no problem here,
he was ‘living the dream,’
ladies and drugs, mountains of cash,
the dreams of quiet teens,
a hit in every scene…
but his father just sighed and said,
“Keep it up and you’ll end up dead.”
Still Garry saw no issue with
enjoying his own green.
Though as he went through his twenties
he noticed a strange thing,
every time he lived it on up,
less pleasure did it bring,
less fun in every fling,
it was fun but not as intense,
at fist this did not make much sense,
he’d always so enjoyed this life,
now it wasn’t working…
And worse still was the growing pain
that he’d feel the next day,
sometimes it made him stop to ask
if he wanted to play,
Or at home should he stay?
He had achieved what most men want,
a wild life that he could flaunt,
so then why, when being honest,
did he no longer crave?
And then one day at twenty-eight
his friends wanted to drink,
the thought of it made his bones hurt,
so away he did slink,
depressed, needing to think...
looked at his life, what did he see?
Pregnancy scares and STDs,
and a handful of nights he’d slept
off his drunk in the clink.
Nothing to show for all his fun,
nothing that could impress,
the world did not care that he had
dropped many a tight dress,
everything seemed a mess,
and worst of all, he’d no savings,
he’d always blown through everything,
while his brother had made partner,
Garry himself felt less.
He would soon drift far from his friends,
far from the debauchery,
felt like a stranger in his own life,
some sort of refugee,
his path he could not see…
What was life now? He couldn’t say,
what once was clear now seemed so gray,
he wondered if this was adulthood,
searching for what to be…
there’s always a man
who walks into the room
like he owns the ceiling
and the dust in the corners
and the breath in your lungs.
he talks about strength
the way a drunk talks about love—
loud,
with broken glass in his mouth.
the country splits itself open
arguing at kitchen tables,
in parking lots,
in the thin blue glow of televisions
that never sleep.
flags flap like nervous birds.
everybody’s got a war now—
a war on neighbors,
a war on strangers,
a war on ghosts they swear are real.
overseas
bombs bloom like bad flowers
in deserts that have seen too many empires
come and go
like bad bar tabs.
the men in suits smile,
shake hands polished with sanitizer and ambition.
they speak of security,
of destiny,
of greatness measured in contracts
and applause.
meanwhile,
back home,
rent is late,
tempers are shorter than cigarettes,
and the truth limps down the alley
with a busted lip.
power attracts its own kind—
loyal faces in expensive jackets,
men who nod too quickly,
who laugh a beat too loud
and some women.
the room fills with yes
yes
yes
until it sounds like a swarm.
and somewhere
a waitress wipes down a counter
and says,
“they’re all the same.”
maybe she’s wrong.
maybe she’s right.
history has a long memory
and a short fuse.
in the end
no one conquers everything.
the wars abroad fade into footnotes,
the wars at home scar the children,
and the man who wanted it all
learns that the ceiling
never belonged to him.
it was just
borrowed
like the rest of it.
What an unusual pragmatism conundrum.
We drum in our kids a sense of quantum.
Then, a few days later, we express our pain,
When we gaze on persons with the same stain.
We maintain tabs on the culprits responsible,
Similar views of the notion that we never boggle.
They also discuss the necessity for integrity.
Possibility of enduring unbearable agony.
Amidst all, we will mainly overlook the peculiarity.
There is a true cure for all our zealotry idiocy,
Our exquisite was driven to beauty, God's grace.
Over halcyon deeds, people in need, and peace.
We view a frail side within; it's a sort of plague.
There is no particular heal; thus, care is vague.
Written: November 25, 2021
A Parody for Soupers based on the song, 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town.'
You better not shout
You better not sigh
You better not pout
I'm telling you why...
PS Admin is makin' the rounds
They are bound
to be making a list
and checkin' it twice
They're keepin' tabs on who's naughty and nice
They'll know when you cause trouble
Someone will pimp you out
They'll take action on the double (not)
Asking, "What is this all about?"
You better not bully
Or use a curse word
Cuz in Poetry Soup
You'll be labeled a turd
You better not be a troll
Cuz it's a crime
Harassment takes a toll
Even if it's done in rhyme
PS Admin wants poets to have a goal
To be nice to each other without blocking
If you do you may find a lump of coal
In the toe of your Christmas stocking
You better not fire your gun
Then your comment gets deleted
That's called a 'hit and run'
An offense that shouldn't be repeated
PS Admin always reads what you're typing
Sent from your IP address
So, you better stop all your griping
Or your account they will repossess
You better not be cruel and mean
Or you'll find yourself in a deep abyss
Kicked out for being a drama king or queen
Having PS Admin's butt to kiss
Every story has two sides
Sometimes they believe the wrong one
The one where the snide villain hides
After their dirty work has been done
They frown on those who harp on negativity
Team Poetry Soup finds it rather banal
For which some among us have a proclivity
In other words, to make it clear, Don't be a.n.a.l
You better not write of hate
It's best not to be accused
So if some of you can relate
It's better known as being abused
If guilty, you'll get nuttin' for Christmas
But if you insist on being bad
There'll be no POTD for you on Christmas
If you make PS Administrators mad
You don't have to worry about Santa Claus
Just don't make Team Poetry Soup frown
Or you'll get kicked out for breaking their laws
Cuz they have the power to shut you down
The labels, some serve to award with honour
and others are just straight up meant to demean
The much sought after accolades and the prestige, ever so enticing
lend a tender sweet stroke to massage and pamper the ego
The reproof and the infamy delivers a gut wrenching punch
to the sternum that tears down dignity and dampens the spirit
Stick with the labels and divide the masses in the end
Crammed into tiny pens, forced into little spaces, misfitted into misshaped places, often left bent out of shape, square plugs rammed into round sockets even
We've all at one point felt the burn of the pressure to seamlessly fit in and thus bore the burden of unwanted labels while nursing clamped mandibles at the same time
Some dying to fit in to only end up stuffed into a labelled pigeonhole
Others tagged with derisive tabs that turn them into social outcasts
Might be enthralled at first but soon enough you'll be trapped for life
Your path paved by caste and class and your fate sealed with a label
Now it's yours to carry, a solid identity they say and you nod and say yay to the labels
Some flattering and others just straight up disheartening
A much needed crutch for some, a means to an end for others and a desperate need for hierarchy for most
A burden to the free souls, a hindrance to being unique and a means to control the masses soon enough
Spare me the labels asseblief
I'm here trying to figure out how to be human first and foremost
I need a moment to orientate myself now that my shackles and blinders are off
I am more than enough just the way I am, of this I'm sure now
Labels might interfere with the path I'm meant to take to evolve
Form:
I used to pray with conditions attached...
The I'll do this if you'll only do that type of soiled tripe.
The epitome of mind blemishes and ramblings.
That I knew would never bear anything significant.
I'm older now, and my prayer nest is made of a softer fabric.
Less abrasive-less selfish.
Tiny puffs of hope- toward heaven.
Directed at the suffering of others.
Sometimes prayer seems to work.
Other times not so much.
But who am I to question intention and outcomes?
The sincere prayer is more exhausting than
selfish ones.
A real drain on the mind.
I've learned to ration them.
Not wasting anything on those that
run up huge tabs at societal expense.
I miss those sticky-youthful days.
Filled with wrecking ball-fun.
And prayers attached to hazy conditions.
Written By: D. Collins 7/14/23
Karma is nothing but how we choose to live.
Whether we take from, or have the heart to give.
Things we have done, may creep up 10 years later.
Like a person we beat down we felt was a hater.
Whether good or bad, Karma will always be there.
Keeping tabs on whether it is prison of fresh air.
That's what Karma does. It is our shadow in the dark.
With every deed we do, it adds or subtracts a mark.
Call it Big Brother watching over all of us.
Tallying the times we were righteous and just.
Karma is the beast who documents it all.
And, decides whether today is our last call.
Today’s a day that’s supposedly filled with political rhapsody/
Yet I sit down and write these words in full spiritual apathy/
I rather be electing a leader whose ideas can capture me/
Chattel ghosts are after me so I can’t afford to be an absentee/
That’s the way it has to be. Many died for my right to choose/
Even if I don’t like the dudes, I must vote, despite the mood/
Despite my feelings that elections do little to bring changes/
Choosing sadists with king wages as their armies sing praises/
Imitation sages. Thinking their group rhetoric is visionary/
Ideas as basic as having sex in positions missionary/
Political dysentery. This system has always been infected/
Vote’s been subjective since the first slave owner’s been elected/
I’ve been neglected and I don’t have the dough to get noticed/
One of the faceless voters. A pawn used in racist quotas/
I face disorder but I’m weighed down by a chaotic tapestry/
Guilty of blasphemy as I elect the next masonic majesty/
The honest travesty is the reality that we’re all expendable/
The poor’s reprehensible as the rich’s laws are extensible/
Democrats more sensible? They all come blunt? I doubt it/
Republicans don’t like me. At least they’re up front about it/
Our wisdom’s clouded. We can’t see their both on the same team/
With the same dream/
Get as much as they can then wipe the slate clean/
This bipartisan system doesn’t allow new voices to surface/
The powers that be, when faced with new choices, get nervous/
They’re hired to serve us, but we transformed them into royalty/
Despite what we feel morally, parties demand total loyalty/
Pay raises quarterly as their conduct grows more disorderly/
Abhorring me and the very few civil laws supporting me/
I don’t mean to be apathetic about the electoral process/
Keeping tabs on the government is an acceptable obsess/
A myth like Lochness? Is Democracy just a pipe dream?/
I must vote to find out. No matter how pointless it might seem...
Form:
My sky friend knew the glistening wound would
Prove fatal as my faith pulled
Itself to the side of the highway to die
Among that patch of diesel blooms and
Pull tabs. He did not weep for me.
He knew as I do the reason for the
Turn and others would soon
Though no spirit would be bled
As slowly as his. The Birds of Thunder
Can only flash their warnings through ageless tears
From eyes known only to me.
Eyes of red and of tears.
Only one-and-a-half score will see the end.
The sky watchers will notice tonight .
But for now the ozone burns
Off the life-light and makes the azure blanket
Curtain-like.
Yet the event will not be known
for days and understood never
(like the bird of time and of tears and of spirit).
They and I are not of this World;
Aliens to logic but also fear.
And as the ending begins
Few will remember this day
The red star left the sky.