Long Unoriginal Poems
Long Unoriginal Poems. Below are the most popular long Unoriginal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unoriginal poems by poem length and keyword.
Master, you look dreadful.
Giving cold shoulders, second nature.
Posture slacking, worn clothes.
Bloodshot eyes fade into the background.
A change in gravity, pulling with all its might.
No more tears left to leave stains.
An avalanche interrupting my tranquility.
An unoriginal copy, just a mannequin.
Heavens, master.
You’re not singing.
Amidst the icy fortress of solitude,
snow and ice reign down.
As the ice pierces its way through the armor,
madness sinks farther into this bruised ribcage.
The sheer cold slowly seeps into the skin.
As it transforms this vessel into a cold heart,
frostbite traps these emotions in time.
Not fear nor sadness, just lifeless and numb.
A lack of peace, a restless mind.
We can remain as we are,
forever and ever.
Where are the magpies?
Where the ruined cathedrals
where are the birds
that once made their homes
in the hollow heads of saints?
Here all dwell in the new or the old
the days between are bulldozed,
the waste rubble resold.
Crowds seek out boarded-up exits
other crowds construct entrances
for new homes
that when assembled resemble all other's.
I need a hill to howl upon.
The land is flat, even the water is flat.
Mountains are small or not at all.
Yet there are midnight Magpies,
there are crows cawing in woodland churches.
Mythical back-eyed catbirds roam
from home to home. Many places are
not condemned to the newfangled
and yet still unoriginal.
Some magpie nests and appear almost near,
just under the eaves of a middling nowhere.
Fell into this rabbit hole
I went down down down,
Into another Country
I Hit the ground ground ground,
Fell in love with danger
Until it bit like a snake,
I Realized I was surrounded by the
Fake fake fakes,
Now climbing up these walls
I see the welcoming light,
Cold November can’t replace this fixed fight,
I saw Stolen authority
wherein an unoriginal plate,
In a losing army where they all meet their fate,
Taking all the money and staging all the fame
I awoke one morning to this vicious game
While the world keeps on dreaming,
I am rekindling youth from out of this rabbit hole,
They may have tried to take my pride
But they can never take my soul.
BY: Sabina Nicole
While you waited, he slipped comfortably into her panties.
Sometimes less is not more, it's just short of enough.
Rather than saving for a rainy day you should buy an umbrella today.
If you are reaching for the stars you can be pretty sure you're standing outside.
He felt a bit irritated when he had to jump for Joy!
He was on the highway to hell, fortunate for him his motorcycle broke down.
She wanted one on one time, sadly she had someone else in mind.
Of all your personalities I like this one the best!
Every time I make a judgement about you, I learn something about myself.
If you want to be seen, sometimes you need to stand by yourself.
Speaking louder does not make you right!
When you walk with your head in the clouds you're more likely to trip.
Original sin has become somewhat unoriginal!
I want to one day be as smart as he thinks he is.
Everything old is still old even if the new stuff looks old.
You can take that to the bank but it will cost you!
If a coward dies a hundred deaths, he should be extremely well prepared.
The poor cat got ripped off, he only had one life.
The man who talks the least has the best hearing.
Never ever underestimate the power of your own stupidity.
Not all who appear friendly are friends.
The one who loses brings another much joy.
Form:
Peter was able to see some of the ant-like Macy's Thanksgiving parade by leaning suicidally over the 50th floor balcony. I go into fight-or-flight panic if I get anywhere near the railing. The parade passes in front of the building with floats passing 40 minutes before they’re on TV.
Finally, hours later, at lunchtime, Michael (Lisa’s dad), announced, in a low, deep and melodic voice, like God might have used to conjure the universe, “come and get it!”
Which started a pell-mell stampede, luckily, no one was hurt.
Would I be unoriginal if I said, “turkey and dressing are the ultimate comfort food?” The aromas, flavors and textures, like the bubbles in our sparkling, apple-cider faux-champagne, invoke minted, holiday memories and emotions.
I have so much to be thankful for. I’m surrounded by friends, I’m doing well (if not perfectly) in school, I’m in a nice relationship - one that makes me confident and America’s in a moment of peace.
Right as we were seated, 13-year-old Leeza’s phone, hidden in her back pants pocket, chirped and her pale, freckled face turned crimson.
“Oh,” Michael said softly, “that’s going to be a problem.”
Leeza held up her phone so everyone could see it shutting down, “Sorry!” she said meekly.
“Thank you.” Her dad responded.
If things aren’t perfect now - when are they? Our holidays may be stripped back and simplified, or we may be separated from those we love, but I hope you’re all well and happy this Thanksgiving and that you don’t run out of gravy.
Because when the gravy’s gone (that may take days) - I’m callin’ it - this thing is over.
Happy Thanksgiving!
.
.
Webster: Pell-mell: “mingled and hurried disorder.”*
As unshaped as water, as filthy as streets, as hard as rocks:-
The separation we create
I remember our memories, I turn in pride
I remember the days…, how we used to pass them by
I remember the times…, when you wouldn’t talk
And I would drive the words out of you
I remember the plays, I remember that place
The place of where we acted, the place that played with life
I remember the jokes, I remember the silliness
I remember all pride
I remember the closeness, I remember the smiles
But I remember the jerkiness, I remember and ask why
I look at the pride
I forget the memories, they’re all in line
I remember the thoughts, the separation of some filthy joke
Told by an unoriginal friend, as silly as snake, as separating as earth
I miss the memories, I miss them deep
None of this would happen if we just swallowed our pride
My pen writes for hours until all the flimsy thoughts
form sentences, clauses, paragraphs measuring passages of time
submitted to journals, magazines, chronicles, and gazettes.
My eyes pause and study the organized vocabulary strands
like DNA with the same four unique proteins strung in different patterns
creating meaning to the alphabet of choice.
My fingers are quick to send to an entrusted friend for meaningful edits
within minutes they spin, collect and whirl the patterns
capitulating to the canned and unoriginal “super intelligence” systems
My nostrils flare at the aroma of AI vomit of words instructing
with endless, organized and neatly formatted pages of ghostwriting edits
and futile forests of feedback from a slipshod and perfunctory ally.
My lips start to summon the sages of intellect, wisdom, writing, and poetry
they meet me with a treatise on a revelation that I have become the “AI slop”
and all voices are muted on the world train running rogue toward annhiliation
My TV Clicks once and the news lava belches living fire into a frigid sea water room
benumbed to the genocides, violence, wars, disasters, and lack of humanity
activists, protesters splash limited words across posters to defy societal anathema
In a world of giants that traffic the consciousness of human minds across algorithms
Maybe, my son has it right, after all...
the ZERO is the only worthy space left and the hero doesn’t exist
Reactions trolls give never give me negative
more the opposite, a great positive
seeking to collapse my spirit until forgotten
attracting spirit of "thank God I'm not them"
If the song to you sombre
and you protest in comment
making unhappiness last longer
cause negativity more constant
when I'm displeased I will move on
search a pleasing as is my need
I don't comment like a moron
wait for miserable replies to read
psychology sits sorrily
as you cliche unoriginal
septic personalities
to me only pitiful
you distribute your negative,
in life this what you do,
a gift of positive,
pleased I'm not you
A broken promise, demoralized man who is incapable of being true,
A thoughtless coward, oblivious clown, this is what I think of you,
A woeful chicken, a runaway guy is how you're now portrayed,
A selfish critter, a prideful morsel is the reputation you have made,
When flesh spoils in a slaughter house the smell of you comes to mind,
For your manipulation has made you completely colorblind,
In your mothers soil you were the bad seed,
As you grew up we realized you were just a weed,
A fragmentation, with no revelation is who you really are,
A scab that stopped healing, the beggar who keeps on stealing, now just another scar,
A predicable cycle, a sick little mess, a hidden agenda that isn’t well dressed,
A miserable liar, disposable fool, too bad you weren’t like an infertile mule,
Just like a wolf, you would consume your own,
For apparently humanity was something you were never shown,
Just like wild animals that abandon their first litter,
You fit right in, you unoriginal quitter.
By: Sabina Nicole
Written:9/29/11
Contest:Angry
Fight the algorithms
that tell us what to do,
to make us predictable,
unoriginal and bankable.
Have you witnessed how
increasingly bland and homogenous
our lives are becoming?
Choose freedom
avoid the diaries of commerce
that riff on the ubiquity of apps
resist the reductive tropes
of our published and circulated,
perspective customer identities.
Fight the algorithms
with their embedded back-lot
familiarity, built around class
and consumerism.
Try to understand the
vague, inscrutable and
purposefully circuitous.
Or stop overthinking
and embrace liberating surrender.
That’s the path I’ve chosen.
.
.
The Gates by Da Vinci's Notebook
Talk Down Dijon