Long Wean Poems
Long Wean Poems. Below are the most popular long Wean by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wean poems by poem length and keyword.
Inspired by Bob Dylan's song
"Abandoned Love"
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Your fire burns deep in my ocean,
But where is the ash of its burn?
It's a motion without movement —
A facemask fixed on the stern.
I would rather fight a phantom,
Than see your heart be fully claimed.
I chose you—perhaps at random—
To repair a heart love had maimed.
My heart still jumps into my mouth
Whenever your beauty appears.
And the wind keeps sweeping down south—
Your absence clouds all my mirrors.
You know you live deep in my chest;
Come feel it before I vanish—
Before my world breaks like the rest,
And my love you once more banish.
Before the moon deserts the sky,
Draw me into your warm embrace.
Let my kiss meet your sun on high,
And match you at a perfect pace.
I'll choke to death beneath this veil—
No longer with masks on my face.
Disguise must break out of its jail,
So truth can soar into my space.
I walk where children leave their trace,
To breathe again the freedom air.
Your love has carved a hollow place—
A weight very heavy to bear.
My heart is soft for such misuse,
Though now your love feels make-believe.
Just your smile, and I'll cut you loose;
The game is done—I've got to leave.
Your treasure lies too far to find,
And church won't crown you as my queen.
As no preacher can make love bind;
I need time to completely wean.
It's time I step into the change—
My heart begs for a kinder pitch.
I love you, but the love feels strange...
Just feel me once more—then we switch.
Contest: Dylan Song Tribute
Contest sponsored: Oliver Mckeithan
Contest Judged: June 19th, 2025 12:55:00 PM
Placement: Third
Tears form in my eyes,
It's no surprise.
I can't understand why,
I don't really want to die.
I know its unhealthy,
But I Loved getting high.
It's hard to stop this guy,
The harder i try,
The more I cry.
Giving in again,
Strengthening his Tie.
Every time I Deny,
It's urges,
He surges forth,
Searching for More,
Running through my core.
A mental war,
Until we score.
Riding the Lightning,
Crashing to the floor.
"I can't take it any more,"
My Spirit roars.
All the Cells Implore,
The need to restore,
Balance to this Machine.
Screaming I wean,
Changing the Routine.
Intervening in between,
What's dirty and clean.
Fruits of wisdom to glean,
Rearranging the scene.
Staging the past,
Clearing the screen.
Removing the obscene,
Learning what i mean,
Becoming a Power Unforeseen.
The Other guy,
Remains to be seen.
You’re much too proud to answer
Don’t want to appear too keen
But every single message sent
Has a check mark…meaning “seen”!
Won’t start up conversations
You won’t ask me how I’ve been
You keep it all under wraps
But my messages are…..”seen”!
You won’t come out and say it
But I know you’ve checked the screen
You answer what’s in my eyes
For my messages you’ve “seen”!
Sometimes I get so angry
I resolve myself to wean
From writing all my feelings…
But then the message comes…”seen”!
And so I keep on writing
Though you TRY to act so mean
At the end of every day
All my messages are…..”seen”!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Waiting for that chemical reaction
That burst of sanity
To take effect
I gradually move
From the grey areas
Into the ever increasing light
Happiness encapsulated
In my tiny pill
Daily dose
Of normalcy
I wonder if I’ll ever be free
From these prescribed pills
And altered state
Of reality
But I think of the alternative
Remembering the horror
And demons of madness
Monstrous tears
Of imagined fears
Locked up in my room
As the world danced on by
Behind flowered pink and grey
Curtains of solitary confinement
Thoughts of death
A morbid lullaby
Notes tinged with premonitions
Who is the next one to die???
Life hangs from a thread
I lived a life tinged with dread
NO…I will not go back to that hell
Another day, another pill
I command my mind to be still
And just accept the dependency
At least there is constancy
Addicted to continuing on
To be able to sing life's song
I look at the light
And start to feel alright
By the time he awakes
I’m bubbly and great
I love him into the day
And I know it will be Ok
Now I’m who I used to be
From depression’s clutches free
Not everyone knows the struggle
How I often need a good cuddle
For in the end my troubled mind
Needs a love that is blind
To the monster’s that I face
And offers me sweet grace
Maybe myself one day I'll wean
And be completely clean
But for now…
the chemical blessing
I just what I need
To survive and thrive
To be truly ALIVE!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
O! wandering child how far would you go?
how lost would you be found,?
Into the caves of nature extravaganza
No brother to keep you, no mother to wean you
no guardian to hood until you stumble into
The pit of random jamboree.
Like the cotton wool you wave
From nooks to crannies
And the wind is your transport
When it blows, you go
from Kilimanjaro to olumo rock
from California to Mauritania.
Rumble no more my dear,
to stumble no further
to be drunken in your misery.
your protractor is found
your compass is located
and navigation is activated.
So gather your experiences
endeavors & sail home
Turn home & you will be greeted
By mother repentance
Open hands
The termite culture's rich and vast,
more so, sometimes, than humankind,
with martyrs and mujahideen,
and projects ponderous yet precise,
and back-up plans, a hundredfold.
How do they do it?
Society is based on caste,
with tasks and territory assigned
by social rank. Some watch, some wean,
some whittle, weave, ward off, entice,
while food for all is fairly doled.
How do they do it?
Their architecture's unsurpassed,
with geodesic shapes, designed
with opulence almost obscene,
and altruists. Self-sacrifice
is common. And they mine for gold!
How do they do it?
Hardly least and never last,
over her subjects (all of them blind)
there reigns a massive, fertile queen,
releasing pheromones (how nice!)
She lives to forty-five years old!
How do they do it?
smelling for fears, so near
manes and fur soft, licks hot
everything’s dear ~ so it seemed
stitches of fear down body
fangs pierced them all till
blood oozed, their booze
bear licked clean, a wean
in gear unfurl, no weakling
fingers into mane very sane
or profane
pears fall one by one, sometimes hurled
it is cosy, not rosy ~ springtime protected projection deflected
winter still to come
yet always here
lice crawl on floor
grey blankets damp
barred steel door clamped with
chains thick, cub in sky
is a guide
assessory locks fly, smoke rise
ferns uprooted as mooted
they cry for nigh
sighing
g o o d b y e
where on Planet this fragment
of inter-specie Love so tender a pretence
lions, bears or humans in air
combination a rotation ?
what time-space or race
holds symbolic pace
interpretation communication
vibratory wavelets not friend or foe
from which hill were they running
to see a graduation
in a murky spring of winter’s white ?
it remains undeciphered declarations
in another reality
perhaps not
toxicity sniffs
Leo roars
Bruno growls …
E N D I S T A I L T O B E E A T EN
in a forest of hopes
when hope is not a concept
since it rests on predetermination
which is fallacy
I'm Mephistopheles, you, my Faust
I'm to your mind what a fluorescent bulb is...
To a fly. I take perverse pleasure
In trapping you in my undertow
I'm a tireless tease that will break your will
I live in your mind, rent-free. I'm tough to evict
I'm your friend with bad intentions
Always up to mean mischief
I show no mercy to my victims, and I have...
No remorse. I couldn't care less whether
You're a person of virtue or vice
I couldn't care less about your age...
Your race; your religious or political affiliation
Once I've seized plenary control of you
My sole aim is to destroy you, and take your soul
I'm that enticing demon that tempts you...
Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day
Refusing to let you sleep or take a vacation
Wean me off at your peril
My name is addiction
Date written and posted: 05/30/2019
There is a nail scarred footprint on the back of Satan's neck
Although for a time and here for now he will make your life a wreck
But take great heart for the Christian as Paul eagerly foretold
His grace is sufficient for us and in weakness we are bold
After our conversion we’re challenged to forsake and to wean
To turn our back on the world and pursue daily cleaning
To take captive every thought but not as a pompous scholar
But to humble ourselves and to uplift his mighty honor
If we only read and try to apply it as a mindful thinker
We cease to change the world and are prone to point the finger
Graves are filled with dead corpses that never met perfection
Maturity was lost and growth stunted for His great affection
What pleasures got in our way? What pride of one's life?
Hindered the fullness of the fruit with no thought of afterlife
He who started a transforming work in us won't stop or delay
Can a verse in a poem be comfort if we are bent to keep astray?
The battle is always present deep where the spirit dwells
Fatigued we fight all-the-day to claim victory over self
Labours and mercies feverishly offered poured out and spent
To what end will we decay before we accept why he was sent?
Known is the walk that is stony and climbed all uphill
Leaning forward in the fight is His divine placed will
No discipline at the time seems pleasant or enjoyed
But maybe he established a lesson and it to be employed
Warriors hate to admit defeat and to admit we are weak
Affliction molds our hearts that is his loving technique
God is quite clear that he will abolish our ego and our pride
Whenever we are haughty He turns his face aside
He came to show the way and to flip us upside down
There is a lot of discerning from under that thorny crown
Denying all of ourselves and to follow the honored king
Dying to our own way we must perform spiritual hygiene
By: Brian Micheal
A soul is divine it is said,
by spiritualists, well read,
but what soul is, most have not seen,
who are by scriptures blindly led.
Detached hermits, whose needs are lean,
in staid stillness have felt soul’s sheen,
which we too can know, if we choose,
erst fears and desires, from heart wean.
With agape love as our heart’s muse,
following truth without excuse,
we then see soul, as light of God,
whence mind games no longer amuse.
Made in God’s image, soul’s a pod,
blooming when we give love our nod,
shining within, as living light;
revelation that leaves us awed.
Bliss drenched soul pulsates with delight,
humming gently by day and night,
as God’s essence, alive, aglow,
known when awakens inner sight.
Thus truth of soul, if we would know,
we must make first, our thought flow slow,
whereupon we see soul’s divine;
whence God guides us and we follow.