Long Wear thin Poems
Long Wear thin Poems. Below are the most popular long Wear thin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wear thin poems by poem length and keyword.
Fraught With IBS Irritable Bowel Syndrome...
Rear lee if ever suffices as an apt poetic title
amidst bookish canon - while
this writer (similar to other aspirants
in their respective creative pursuits)
aware arbitrary perusers may deem vile
core body of voluntary selective readers
mentally affix probationary trial
before unequivocally gravitating
toward my genre or signature style,
which unique modality
of expression eventually
accruing some degree of popularity
affecting unseen frown or smile
nonetheless, accepting, enjoying,
and tolerating how I playfully rile
aware that anonymous reader's
patience can wear thin relegating mine
worded persona on par with a reptile
unknowingly breaking fragile bond,
hence she/he might not reconcile
without awareness a valuable kinship,
dismiss me as puerile,
thus forsaking tenuous link, one
that may never bare tangible fruition,
yet all along self scrutiny occurs to refine
thy cerebral thought provoking profile
also intimating months gone by bias
arises toward my
figurative handily prehensile
expansive vocabulary, could
(and/or does) rank as a pile
of unpleasant gluteus maximus
sphincter muscle missile
imposing effort to tone down exuberant,
flamboyant, and gallant mercantile
flashing blindingly exasperatingly,
and inflamingly nauseating vocabulary,
not deliberately juvenile
but this luxe lavish embellishment
a labor of (lost) love with English
Language (inherent since...
in utero), thus...infantile
asper taking shape without conscious
deliberation, though imbecile
appellation possibly affixed
as lasting impression,
perhaps even engendering hostile,
whereat no effort to exhort
unconditional acceptance of me guile
will transpire, cuz this chap
recognizes how tenuously fragile,
the online choice to remain a steadfast
virtual friendship quintessentially fissile
oft times casting the notion how facile
mine arrangement springs from one
core textured intellectual domicile
that houses persona of one docile
amphibious descendent, whose forebear,
yes twas a crocodile!
("Dark Pool Nebula #3", 2011, original oil)
Tilting at Windmills
In this modern world, in these modern times
adventurers of the spirit are looked down upon
at least among my family and friends.
It’s all good if kept at a distance,
but too up close and personal
and it quickly becomes uncomfortable.
This is the nature of madness after all,
easy to admire or pity from afar
difficult to contain, thus contagious up close.
What are these giants anyway
but figments of imagination
relics from a child’s fever dream,
youthfully flirted with out on the ledge
and only recalled much later with nostalgic fondness
until the insulation begins to wear thin, again
as in youth, the myelin sheaths exposed to all elements
no longer undeveloped, but overwhelmed, weakened
by so many years, so many close calls,
expectations, disappointments, gains and losses
that the highs and lows
all blend into a flat plain
stretching endlessly across a plateau hard won
difficult to reach, exhausting to maintain
as the mountains continue to shimmer and call
their wind-horses fluttering sweet melodies on the breeze
silky sirens of another shore…
which in themselves are timeless
yet loom large when we feel small.
And the truth is we are all small.
(12/7/23)
Today I learned that all is naught, and naught is all..
I have been seeking, unconsciously, unaware,
Only to learn that all that I ever wanted to be was a seeker,
Out ward lies but a pale reflection of the magnificent kingdoms that reside within,
And here I was seeking scraps amongst the ruins that the fake outside threw at me,
While the bounty lies untouched, getting duskier, murkier, and fading to be lost forever, without a trace,
With millions of padlocks of ignorant births vying to seal it shut, before my very eyes while I watched impassively mesmerized by the play,
how miserably blind have I been and how deaf,
To the truth hidden in plain sight, and the song of truth hidden in the silence.
How badly I have missed the pacific embrace of my maker, the liberating, exhilarating, peaceful.
Yes I have always had a feeling of being watched by a million eyes, which is spied through the corners of my own, and heard hushed muffled cries felt warm tears being shed every time I fell.
How many bewildering disguises exclusively designed to fool me?
What a fool I have been to think I was a nobody, when there is somebody as badly in need of me, as badly as I am in need of he.
He who cast me out of my perfectitude, into the microcosm of infinitesimallity .
Only to quietly but surely blow me back the way from whence I came,
Like a dry leaf moves so mildly in a breeze as though on its own accord.
His disguises fast wear thin as I see him in all, I shall catch him soon..
For him, I have long sought, he who taught me,
Naught is all and all is naught.
I wanna write a short poem -
Eliminate the fluff -
But somehow just a few lines
Don't ever seem enough.
I wanna write succinctly
And chop down to the core,
Yet all the words I whittle
Keep coming back for more.
I wanna squeeze my meaning
Into just a verse or two,
Though when I reach that threshold,
My poem is not quite through.
I wanna grab that reader
Whose patience may wear thin;
Convince him that the ending's
Close to where he'll first begin.
I wanna write a short poem.
Alas, I cannot do it;
For here, five verses later,
I see I really blew it.
Still, when my poem is finished
I peruse it and I see
That it sounds just like it should
And that's the perfect length for me!
I know of a young soul who lived
By the lies and labels society and others
Projected and reflected on the screen of
His or her mind. Who was always lost in
The thoughts and ideologies of others.
Fear became the only companion a
companion who existed only by the
false identity of comfort and safety.
He/she was made to believe that it
Was not always ok for them to be
How, who and what they are. So they
Are often stuck in an ongoing loop
Of the quest I on’s (questions) of who am I? What am I?
Why am I here or there?
I know of a young soul whose mind is
Constantly on the attack. The pains of yesterdays
Had them looking back never looking
Forward to anything worthwhile only
On the front lines of consciousness if only
You knew the things that are holding you captive
Vision is only as clear as the looking glass.
So I guess life is just a series of learning experiences
But I’m late for class.
I know of a young soul who was taught to believe that wealth and abundance
does not grow on trees so the only image of green is what blows in the spring and Summer breeze and the toxic waste symbols that only cause Dis. Ease. The shadows of doubt the plague of overwhelm towards any form of happiness category5 winds of fake and phony friends claiming to have your back in comparison to family ties that wear thin. What to do then when a young soul is made to feel as if the existence
Is nothing more than a sin.
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
Quote: "There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.” – Mahatma Gandhi
In wars, innocent lives are the cost,
Their homes, their dreams, forever lost.
Starvation strikes, food laid to waste,
Leaving many hungry in its haste.
In silent shadows where hunger hides,
Aching emptiness, sorrow abides.
Whispers in the dark seek a ray of light,
A glimmer of hope to end the night.
In bellies hollow, echoes resound,
Souls wear thin, despair is found.
Streets echo with desperation's cries,
As hunger's grip tightens, hope tries.
Yet within hearts, resilience blooms,
Defying hunger's relentless gloom.
Let's extend our hands, open wide,
To those in need, nowhere to hide.
In acts of kindness, flames are fed,
Bringing warmth to the hungry, unfed.
In the spirals of our ancient code lie secrets
No pill boasts on its glossy label:
We are the cradle of the human genome,
Yet our maps remain blank in global trials.
Test tubes filled with our diaspora’s pulse
Are left untouched—ignored by profit’s design.
Prescription after prescription fails us,
Side by side with miracles elsewhere.
Tell me, Western pharmacopeia,
Why ship drugs proven blind to our cells?
Why let our hearts suffer, our livers wear thin,
While your profit margins bloom?
This is not science—it’s a crime cloaked in white coats,
A quiet genocide as lethal as any missile.
Colonial bias got a new skin—it wears lab coats now,
And it bleeds through African veins still uncounted.
To the leaders in ivory towers of a broken state:
Your silences echo louder than your oaths.
You sold your people’s trust
For crumbs from foreign tables.
But we—the children of a thousand tribes—
We are rising not in whispers, but in fire.
Your puppetry ends where our voices begin:
We will build our industries, staff our labs,
And chart every strand of our DNA.
Pharma’s blood stained on our histories,
Indicted by our silence no longer.
We demand justice, recall every flawed pill,
And rewrite the code of care in our own image.
For if medicine cannot learn our language,
Then it shall learn our resistance:
Made in Africa, by Africans, for Africans—
No more sacrifices for their sterile profit.
Aging puppet
When I opened my eyes, I recall the weirdest dream
I was an aging puppet time breaking my strings
Years ago, I enjoyed a younger life
Now my strings are being cut by an age-old knife
Being young and healthy is our biggest prize
Five years ten years disappear in front of your eyes
Celebrate your youth in a healthy way
Your aging strings will wear thin someday
One string, two strings break, you lose your walk
More lines break you can barely talk
Five strings, six strings, your flat on the ground
Without the strings of speech, you utter no sound
Rows are wearing thin that made you strong
Before too much longer, your strings will be gone
The life we live will someday end
Strong strings through time will eventually thin
Some sell their souls for a new spool of strings
But it doesn't change what old age brings
The stringless puppet vanishes without making a sound
Strings break, he falls hard to the ground
He lays helpless, no movement at all
He's finally taking his life-ending fall.
Lpickard
Copyright © William Pickard
Slam entry for contest
Being british through and through, what the hell!
Even here in England I smell the crude slick smell.
British Petroleum, BP, yes I said it!
Feeling to blame for the fat cats messed up S##t!
I’m sure that the story here is only half told
News dies off fast when all the papers are sold!
£13 billion pounds to “compensate” the damage
That’s ok then?! Let’s relax and have a cheese sandwich!
How sad, Mr BP losing his job, he’ll have to sell his Rolls Royce
Lets be honest, he’s not gonna line up for a job through choice!
13 million barrels leaked, no wonder a gallon is £6
At that price it amazes me how they afford to get a plane off the ground!
Lets go on holiday…not to America though, why though?
Embarrassed to be fair. I shouldn’t be that much I know.
‘The dead sea’, full of oil, not the one that replenishes skin!
‘Sea of death’, full of hurt,…oh, hello Mr BP, your money is gonna wear thin!