Long Unemotional Poems
Long Unemotional Poems. Below are the most popular long Unemotional by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unemotional poems by poem length and keyword.
Then at night when it’s quiet and everything’s black,
Her thoughts will often reveal,
What she says and does throughout the warm day,
Doesn’t explain the way that she feels,
About the love that she wants, the care and caress,
The desire to be a best friend,
She leaves scars on her tongue from what’s never said,
She keeps calm and smiles instead,
And she calls bull#### on friend zone, it doesn’t exist,
She doesn’t know the words she should say,
To the girls in her life that she thinks are the ones,
She does not want to be a cliché,
So she drifts off to sleep to her nightmare each night,
Her one where she thinks she’s insane,
Where she talks with anxiety alone with her fear,
Of her unemotional emotional pain.
He was tough, he’d been raised to be big, fit and strong,
To hide any hurt, pain or fear.
He’d prepared for this fight, bottling his feelings,
Living an unemotional atmosphere.
Then the time had arrived, a fight till the end,
He had to win this fight at any price.
His opponent knocked on his door, ready to take him on,
By casually rolling the dice.
He swung to the left and glanced to the right,
Then an uppercut straight to the chin.
Then he kicked like a soldier, a seasoned marine,
And he thought he was going to win.
But his opponent was smart, and took all of his rage,
Took it with one boxing glove.
His opponent she won, so he lay down defeated,
Defeated by that emotion called love.
It’s Sunday morning, about 8am. My BF Peter and I we’re doing our laundry. Most of the time, we spent in my dorm common room, sitting side by side on a red corduroy couch, while our clothes washed, and then tumbled away in the dryer.
If you want privacy on a college campus, or to do laundry in peace, avoiding the weekend laundry rush, do it before 10am.
"Why do you wear these," Peter asked, pulling and lightly snapping the hairband on my wrist.
I pull my hand back, protectively. "If I don’t have a hairband on my wrist I feel out of control."
There’s a new me. I’d decided - civilized, unemotional, clear-sighted.
"I've got a lot to do before summer,” Peter said earlier, “so I made a spreadsheet.” I felt a shadow pass over me - our future is, at best, undecided. So, I shifted gears, the way the new me is trying to do lately.
“A Spreadsheet!” I said, like I approved, and he grinned. I’d made him happy. This is what adults do, I’d decided, they have civilized conversations where decisions were made or avoided - but there was a small, dark thing in my heart.
I got a text from our dryer saying our clothes were dry, so we headed down. I love the smell of fresh laundry and the feeling of shaved legs against fresh bed sheets - a luxurious combination no guy will ever understand. I made a mental note to shave my legs later.
The last couple of weeks I’ve been working on summer fellowship applications. A successful summer fellowship is one of those things I’ll need when I apply for med-school - like grades, faculty letters, physician recommendations, community service, a great MCAT score, bla bla bla.
My mom knows the 200 things med-schools use to cleave away pretenders and she’ll rattle them off upon request and sometimes over groaning protests.
What I need, ideally, this summer, are clinical experience hours. There’s not much at stake, just my future, the respect of the faculty, and the begrudging acknowledgement of my pre-med peers. My mom was quizzing me on my progress last night. I confirmed that all the applications were in and I ended with, “I haven’t slept with anyone yet, to gain advantage - but we’re still early in the process.”
She was not amused.
I hold all of your secrets clenched every day,
Clenched tight and secure in my fist.
I play with them, tease them, throw them and read them,
And I flick them around with my wrist.
I know, every morning, you look deep through my eyes,
Telling me your cares about you.
And I search and I read and I store every second,
From happy to angry to blue.
But to you I’m cold, I’m flat, unemotional,
No soul, just empty in space.
And you don’t realize that there’s life in this screen,
Whenever I look at your face.
I’m your perfect reflection, your you that is you,
Your you when you’re standing up tall.
I’m your perfect everything that’s all that you are,
Your perfect long mirrored up wall.
5th September. hope you enjoyed this :)
The places i go
Are different then the places i have been
I take to the reigns of pain
I try to control them
Yank them as hard as i can
But they don't stop the horses of rage
They symbol all the running i have done
With no logic and no goal
The prints go no where
I circle myself
Round and round
Confused and complaint to the ways of my up bringing
I am the man of the house i need to take care of them
But i have not for years and years
My judgement clouded by jealousy and mistrust
I cant think clearly at all when anxiety takes control
The roles i play senseless and unemotional
I am like a child with no real guidance
I search continuously for the reason the origin of where all this comes from
Mentally challenged i never could think i was
Truth be told i do see that i tend to stray from any type of rational thought
When my mind goes a wild into trances of unknowing
It hypnotizes my heart to believe all is common
I need to recognizes these faults and try to improve where these horses of sanity run.
Closure
Closure isn't such a bad thing, It just reveals
Someone 's true reality of one's character.
To put a short depravity to this even shorter
story; I think Closure comes when you stop
looking for it.
Not the door that closed without warning
Sometimes the Closure isn't an explanation,
It's acceptable occasionally, You may never
get the answers you're looking for.
Closure is unemotional that they'll never give you candor, a plea or confirmation one deserves.
You think those things will help you move on?
I know you may want closure, But it's
Accepting that their silence was their answer.
I notice a face with myriad bent distress.
With eyes that include a trace of sadness,
A dreary routine without a success story,
A vivid photo of the topic dyed with clarity.
His elements are unemotional and calm,
Seeing elapses on the aegis of life qualm.
Love has been his mate and accomplice.
He deemed it right by the slow compass.
A wiped-out execrable ruffled face is rough.
Neediness mutiny yet glad for his estate bluff,
The abysmal face conceals a delicate heart.
His soul is more aware than it seems at first.
Written: June 19, 2022
The Pastel Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig cornish
Trump, from afar, is a lunatic, a maniac,
A complete unemotional psychopath.
He talks like an imbecile- a crazy, a loony
A very real alarmist sociopath.
Wanting the people’s adulation, for his ego, his strength,
He talks, his first option war.
For any made up problem, he talks of having no destitute;
He’ll fill his armies with the poor.
Because he knows the people don’t care, they have no warmth,
It's He they will underestimate.
His lack of respect, his lack of empathy, of sense,
He just won’t tolerate.
Other cultures and other societies,
He’ll use Power to your nation’s detriment.
Making the U.S., your country once so proud,
Become so irrelevant.
It’s quite compelling how the felon becomes the victim expelling any responsibility or failings
just innocence sailing the calm then encountering harm that false charm preventing any lessons or altered behaviour progressively ascending confidence but cons are dense
carry on and re-enter danger circumstantial stranger explainer very unemotional point and blamer relying on superior intellectual properties to dodge accountability the impossibilities
silly little liars unpleasant deniers transparently apparent and to anyone present totally repellent
because people get found out
first round nailed it down
second round doubt found
third round knocked out
found out
no truth in your mouth
action drought
actual lout
reputation drowned
now lonely been disowned with your known true tone exposed everyone knows you’re fake you’re a fibber trying to dig out a sneaky sliver lying to strangers while you’re friendships wither and now calling yourself a forgiver acting bigger
with no one close because you’re a hoax
one of those grown up damaged blokes
savage jokes holding hope delusional loops and chapter hoops
denying you ever did anything wrong
too clever too strong
when really too weak to ever learn from
and dearly seeking but everyone’s gone
cus when truth comes through there’s nothing you can do
you could give up be honest be true but that’s too much so you stay a delude sticking to the story as if it’ll make it true how sad are you
a one dimensional lying dude who does what he does cuz he doesn’t do
the insecure ain’t pure they don’t tell it raw they invent it all ending a lonely individual
with intellectual properties lost logically a con lost of confidence in defence taking offence but never taken seriously having no friends
My best recall is that I saw her for the first time at a Starbucks store several weeks ago. Approaching the door with two large bags, she hesitated and seemed puzzled. I suspected she knew that she was welcomed to enter, but the bags would be forbidden. I sensed that she was concerned about her bags and whispered, "I will watch them for you". She quickly obliged as her perplexity vanished, and she, with a sense of ease, entered the store.
I have seen her several times since as a faceless, unemotional, and very gentle homeless person. But last Saturday, I saw her in a very different light as I was engaged in conversation with a couple of friends. I tell you, life is such a joy if we dare take a moment to capture what so few of us seem to notice.
As we were conversing and laughing, I looked to my right and was arrested by a beautiful smile. Suddenly, she had a warm connection with us, and our eyes and smiles assured her of our love. Suddenly, the homeless, the faceless, and the nameless lady was being enriched by our conversation. Perhaps she remains homeless, but a snapshot of her emotion and smiling face now rest in our hearts.
10312018PoSoupContest, Early November 2018, Brain Strand; 1P