Long Treatment Poems
Long Treatment Poems. Below are the most popular long Treatment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Treatment poems by poem length and keyword.
How do you trust
when the trust has been broken
how do you love
when you’re left out in the open
Who do you choose
when you’ve only felt used
What do you do
when no people come through
They say go again..
what so I can relive all that?
I was loyal, they could depend,
but it never comes back,
Their self esteem was so low
I was the one they attacked
And I was so confident,
outnumbered left flat
I know it was poor judgment
too allow them around
and that’s my mistake
until the next one is found
It’s not that I blame them,
It’s shock, I feel drowned
others peoples insecurities
somehow pulled me down
They get bitter they get nasty
take malignant chances
in a world that upsets them
their treatment enhances
And to think I wanted the best
so everyone advances
now I feel broken
I just cannot stands this
I feel like I’m nothing
there’s no reset button
I’m hoping for something
I’m not sure it’s coming
The day I stop writing
will be the day I come through
I’m sick of this fighting
but what else can I do
Take strength that I’m breathing
say I’ve still got potential
Use it to motivate and believe in
a world that rewards
Lord, where are you in my darkness? I cry out to you, but the room feels empty.
Look at how others are dancing in your light.They receive favor, they are celebrated, and they tell me it is time to move on.
They do not see the weight I carry every single day.Why have you hidden your face from my grief?
My heart is broken after ten months, yet I am left sitting in the back rows while others receive special treatment in your house.
Do not forget me in my mourning.See my anger, see my tears, and be the sanctuary that your people have failed to be.
God, where am I in this earth you created?Here I sit alone, invisible in your house
.
My words are silent, like the clouds passing up above;Soon, the heavy darkness will envelop me completely.
Lord, look at the anger, resentment, and hurt I carry.I have shed so many cries that go unseen and unheard.
While others celebrate their nieces and families without dread,I am left in the shadows of the sanctuary, forgotten by those around me.
Do not hide your face from my invisible pain. Hear the silence of my aching heart.
Lord, no teaching did I receive to prepare me for this.I grew up alone, deserted by your own kind, left outside the circle
My heart is as empty as the well of the Good Samaritan, you yourself once sat with open ears, listening to the outcast.
Yet no living water fills my well now;I am parched, dry, and sitting in the dust.
Forgive me, God, for the anger that burns within me for the liberty my neighbors enjoy while I have no love left to give.
Even your apostles gave everything but ultimately left. Now I am left alone in the shadows, waiting for a drop of your grace.
Thus forest of trees is my fortress, the wind blowing will be my goodbye song..
They’re not coming here to nurse us
Because of the approaching Brexit day
But it doesn’t really matter because
There’s no money for treatment anyway.
After buying planes for the carrier
And replacing the Trident deterrent,
That’s a great big whack
Of our taxes spent:
Then there’s repairs to Buck House,
Cash for our own dear Queen,
Westminster Palace renovated
To smarten the Parliamentary scene,
Tax cuts and perks
For the very wealthy,
Just no money left
For the poor and unhealthy.
If they were patriotic
They would understand why
It’s in the National interest
They just crawl off to die.
So long as we’ve enough
To provide a Servant class
We really don’t need
A a larger proletarian mass.
Large profits coming
From our new railway track
And with Brexit looming nearer
We’ll soon have our Country back.
We can look forward
To a future bright and new
With our nice passports
Coloured nicely Tory blue.
The possibilities are intriguing
When we go our own way
Great Britain once again
All Hail Brexit Day.
If prosperity is slow to come
There’s no need to wait
Our little offshore island
Can become fifty first state,
With a capital renamed Trumpton,
Farage as the puppet head
Not God Save The Queen
Just Stars And Stripes instead.
Pull up the drawbridge
Turn the clock back to zero
Fiddle while Rome burns
With our modern Tory Neros
Written over two years ago
Enough to make one swear and curse
Really hard to credit but
Unbelievably things have got worse
His two years old son
Needed treatment for stomach pain
But he had no money
His wife needed to pursue
Her BA course
He couldn't afford to
I can't help he would say
I must be happy with what I have
He would say to himself
Somewhat stoically
But his days were otherwise happy
Ferrying people between
Two metro railway stations
In his motorized auto-rickshaw
The road was straight and bare
Just earn and live from hand to mouth
A youth of twenty with no anxiety
The season changed
One day after dropping the last passenger
His eyes fell on a purse lying in the rear seat
Inside it, he found some cards
A bundle of currency notes
One lakh Indian rupees
That would amount to
Around eight hundred dollars
For the first time
He was on crossroads
The right-hand road he looked at
The right brain itched
Lucrative and lovely
The left-hand one looked logical
Take care it warned
The left brain he scratched
Folds on the forehead
The choice was difficult
Unlike Robert Frost
Perhaps the purse owner
Had withdrawn the money from a bank
To meet some emergency
He rationalized
Rummaging the purse
He got a useful telephone number
He dialed it
Answered a suave voice
The caller narrated how he had got the purse
The responder melted in gratefulness
" I am busy in my office.
My wife will see you in an hour.
Do please visit us one day and have lunch
with us"
Handsome looking
Auto-rickshaw owner smiled
Looked still further handsome
Mrs. Dasgupta arrived at the appointed hour
He returned the purse
A month later she gave him a return gift
It was almost a love at first sight
This time
He was at a really difficult crossroads
September 17, 2019
Crossroads Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
What is on your mind today?
A war without repercussion
Or the History of creationism
A birth without the pain or vivid stories
A wedding without the bride or groom
A young life cut down to soon.
A presidential race without any lies
A casket without a cadaver
Facebook with friends or backstabbers?
Cancer treatment without radiation
Recession without a long bailout
or wearing high heel with toes out
A week without snow or rain
Birthday wishes without leaving messages
Being so darn broke,
you are so ashamed
Your limp wallet smoke
Buy one get the other free
What up with that deal
When a man is ready to be faithful
Is he ready to accept his failures?
Is our lives based on Bollywood referrals act.
Isn’t that the true facts?
We were in a fast car
Running with the wind
Listening to the radio
Bruce singing Born in the USA
Us singing along
Me not knowing the words
Carried away by the beat
And the powerful male voice.
The sun went down
Red streaks in the sky
Feeling brave and invincible
We drove on
Three of us
Mike and Bobby
Me in the back seat
The music becoming stronger
Hypnotic
Like a powerful magnet
Joining our voices together
Until it stopped.
Up ahead
A sign
Pointed to Jones Beach.
Walking along the deserted shore
We found a dry stretch
Sat down facing the ocean
Rhythmic sounds of crashing waves
Calming us down
In the darkness
We talked about things
Questioning our teenage doubts
In anticipation of the exciting lives
That was sure to await us.
Occasionally I think about that night
But it never bothered me that we didn’t keep in touch
Last I heard Mike was somewhere out West
And I lost Bobby’s number
Years ago.
Recently
I had the chance
To read the lyrics to Born in the USA
Lyrics that I thought were so catchy
And so right
In fact described the callous treatment
Of Viet Nam vets
Who came home ignored and forgotten.
As for the Three Kings
From that summer night
Forgotten friendships
Made in youth
Don’t seem to ever come back
Such are the mistakes in life.
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice to the babies, little children
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice to native Americans
Where are all the Indians now
And I, I
I am emotional
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice to African Americans
Those Blacks, the *******, Colored
Whatever the name they go by now
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice to those churches
That mistreats their members
Tell them that their not saved unless they like as per their denominational creed
What about you
What about me
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice
Help me Lord, to just pray more
Help me God, to reside in your love
Help me to forgive so
--So that I may live eternally with you
Arise in me keep me true
I will fully intend to forgive them
Whose spitefully misuse me
I am emotional
Righteous indignation
I am emotional
I am anger
Over the mistreatment
Insults
Malice treatment of others
What a sense of injustice to our sisters and brothers
Selah
10/25/18
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Summertime ago, this marked my heart.
and I was young, perhaps full of myself
Vanity and pride, my own burdens
as I walked again
beneath that cypress,
and the oak,
I seem to see friend's footsteps
everywhere,
remembering
those words we'd spoken.
Regrets like pale morning dew,
muddy with each new heated drop
all my yesterdays anger
wilted and forlorn...
One last glance, where happiness
once was mine
yet I chose rage instead of warmth
this silent treatment
broke the unbroken bond...
as I gently fall again
into kinship's darkest twilight time.
Eve Roper's Contest: Summer Day
9/9/2017
The class thing
I’m working class from the very beginning, my mother worked in a fish factory putting sardines
In the meantime, she went to work before me. My breakfast was standing in the kitchen, eating a slice of bread with margarine. if the school served breakfast, I ate there
I noticed early in life that those who spoke with educated voices got better treatment than we who spoke the street parlance
I tried to speak as the educated did, which made me tongue-tied and deeply shy, but it helped me to get an education of sorts
It was only after stumbling, falling, and reading that I came to see I hail from an honorable class that built our nation after World War 2
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.