Long Withdrawal Poems
Long Withdrawal Poems. Below are the most popular long Withdrawal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Withdrawal poems by poem length and keyword.
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Mein kampf synonymous as a blooper
Writer of these words,
a former Lower Providence inhabitant,
who dwelled within darkest depths
of Dante Alighieri's inferno
for most of his outlandish, impish,
and devilish growing up years
witnessed microscopic scrimmage,
where spermatozoan with most forcefulness
muscled itself handedly,
magnificently, and splendidly
envision unicellular olympic competition,
yours truly swimmingly
begot during the heat
of parents being passionately fruitful
courtesy diploid erogenous frisson
between my then searingly
robust virile father and fecund mother
~ late March/early April 1958
ushered seminal moment
post ova fertilization realization
courtesy male gamete
penetrating zona pellucida
a glycoprotein layer surrounding the oocyte
triggering cell bait multiplication
subsequently yielding male
gendered offspring and sole son
hashtagged as uber twittering, snapchatting,
shutterflying super duper
cute little boy with short strawberry blond hair,
whose solitudinarian nature
became quite evident when he displayed
acute social withdrawal
upon off fish shill commencement
getting schooled as a grouper
by mister Hooper,
who made his debut
appearance on Sesame Street
November 10, 1969
as storied and staple long time resident
on above named television show
until March 18, 1983,
beloved by adults and children alike
within make believe community
(a conglomerate of real and imaginary locales)
peopled with proprietary named characters
for any of a number of humorously grotesque
glove or rod puppets and marionettes,
chiefly representing animals,
first popularized, idolized,
dramatized, capitalized, and actualized
by the children's television programme
Sesame Street (1969-) and more recently
in The Muppet Show (1976-80).
Also: a toy made to resemble one of these
ingenious brainchild of Jim Maury Henson
an American puppeteer, animator, actor,
and filmmaker who achieved worldwide
notability as the creator of the Muppets
which series originated as two pilot episodes
produced by Henson for ABC in 1974 and 1975.
Henson's shocking, sudden death occurred on May 16, 1990 of organ failure resulting from streptococcal toxic shock syndrome. An emotional memorial service was held five days later at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.
III.
It was near midnight when they came again,
four warriors armed all with flaming brands,
Myron bolted up from a fitful sleep,
and poured out bullets as the horses ran.
He managed to shoot one off of his horse,
but the trio screamed and charged in once more,
Harold said”They’re fools to keep charging in!”
But Myron though hard, and wasn’t so sure.
He called for all to cease firing
and listened close as if searching for proof,
then he heard soft thumps coming from above,
one of them had gotten up on the roof!
The charging men had been a distraction,
and Myron grabbed the shot-gun in a hurry,
fearing that they would set the roof aflame,
he opened fire with a hot fury.
A hole was blasted where he shot the brave,
the dead man rolled off and struck hard on the ground,
the charging warriors roared in anger,
so Harold shot another one of them down.
The survivors fled back towards their camp,
but no withdrawal did the Sioux men beat,
instead they took turns sniping at their foes,
to deny Myron and his family sleep.
Come Morning Myron looked out and saw perched high
sixteen warriors atop their steads,
with lances and rifles and tomahawks
preparing for the morning’s bloody deeds.
But what chilled Myron’s soul more than anything
was the small tree trunk that two riders held
by the branches, to batter down the door,
and visit upon them a living hell.
The others let loose a barrage of shots,
to try and suppress Myron waiting within,
he fired endlessly took down two more,
then leapt back as the riders bore down on him.
The battering tree smashed right through the door,
a slew of war-cries went up, loud and piercing
the shot-gun blasted, two more warriors fell,
the noise left all their heads and ears ringing.
Harold went down from a shot to the chest,
the doorway was a commotions of words,
but standing there clutching his aching head
was the muscled form of Diving Bird.
Myron leapt forwards and drew his pistol,
then jammed it straight into Diving Bird’s ear,
Roared,”If you value your War-chief’s life,
you will all stop, and ride straight out of here!”
The Indians outside froze when they saw them,
none understood the words that he did say
except for an old man, missing an eye,
who spurred forwards to attempt a parlay...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Autumn leaves and melancholy
The city park an Oasis for a lovers stroll
As the cold nights invade the city lights
Park benches, the hotels for the homeless
A vagrant inebriated man, withered
Drunk and destitute, no home to go
He lies listless, snoring on the park bench
Ragged clothes and a tattered life
Wake UP Wake UP
Shoved by the Police in the dead of night
You must move on old man
Or we shall issue you a court summons
Ah but where shall I go? he boldly demands
This is of no concern of ours old drunk
You must vacate this park now
We have no time for old drunk fools
The old man asks, and who pray tell are you?
I am the police, and your nightmare, if you don’t vacate now
Oh Police? Not officers of the peace? Here to serve and protect?
And who pray tell are you serving and protecting tonight?
Do not talk back old man
Worse things than a summons may befall upon you
Now move on you stinky drunk
As the story goes, the old man moved on, drunk and broken
The next day, no better for the wear
The old man rose, to begin another beggar’s day
Voices inside tormented him
Wounds from long ago
Today, he proclaimed time to collect his just rewards
His teeth ached, his belly hurt
He bought a gun, from the toy store
All he could afford
Off he went to the City Bank
Time for a withdrawal
Hand me all your cash he demanded
The teller whispered
Old man we all know you
You can not think to get away?
Why you barely stumbled your way in here
I doubt you can make it to your getaway bus?
- concern and compassion in her voice
He replied all proud
None the less hand me your cash
My plan is sound, you pretty lass
Fear not I mean no harm to you sweetie
At the door, those very same Police
Yelled drop your weapon
And so he did
As they pushed him violently to the ground
Sitting in the back seat, he smiled
Finally justice will be served
The Officer scolded him
You drunk, you will be locked away now you scum
40 years before, the irony of life was to be painted
The old drunk saved the life of a fellow soldier
Who had a son, whom became a police officer
Irony is the sadness that shall sink many a heavy heart
Now the old man, with 10 years in prison
Finally his country paid his dues
This old war vet, got his 3 square meals
His teeth all fixed and healthcare for an ailing heart
God bless those who truly serve and protect
Let's play a game, shall we?
It's a fun little number I like to call
"Do I miss you because I love you,
or because you're my brain's scar tissue?"
Let's review the facts, shall we?
You're a spoiled NEET who took pleasure from my pain
From making me bend over backwards
And watching my free will vanish
Like a parasite, you latch on to everyone
Begging for gifts and food like a child
Passive-aggressively plotting when you don't get your way
And everyone gives in to get you to shut up
By all accounts, you're a horrible person
So tell me why, tell me why
Why do you still haunt my dreams at night?
Why does the thought of losing you still hurt me so?
You're like heroin
Because man, doing lines of you through the night
Was the greatest high when the trip was fine
And the comedown was so fierce
So here I lay, sweating yet freezing
Dope sick and hungover after the greatest afterparty
Craving another hit to feel the ceiling again
Gently gnawing on my twelfth step chip
But you weren't always that way, you know
The love we shared was once pure
And each day was a blessing that I'd give so much to return to
And I think that's the you that I miss
But hey, that person died two years ago
You wore her skin so well that I didn't realize
That I still had a body to bury
Before you skinned it and wore it
More often than not, it's the pure memories I recall
When I'm clutching my phone with my thumb above the send key
And another withdrawal pang hits my temple
And jolts my thumb to the clear key
So where are you now?
I can't imagine I'm in a much better place right now
Eating my fourth cup of cup noodles tonight
Poring over a broth stained essay
It's comforting to share a pitiful existence with you
Because in a weird way, I feel more connected with you than ever
Sharing a loving, tender kiss across time and space
As we both scoop the last shrimp from the bottom of the cup
But each cup leads me closer to my dream
As you stagnate at home
Self-actualization is a difficult concept to measure
But your NEET dream dies with the last of your savings
The sun rises and the glare from the screen hits my eyes
Another frosty December morning
Through the sight of the rising sun and the scars you left behind
For now at least, you and I are forever intertwined.
When My Big Sister Stepped In
Sponsor: Eve Roper
It was a cloudy Thursday, March 2009...
I remember it clearly...
I was shivering in withdrawal,
my blood was boiling as I began to fall.
Addicted to my addiction,
lost in my fantasies of hopelessness...
Walking down the wrong path of conviction
into a black hole of nothingness,
And there you were...
baby sister needing,
her big sister...
You held me,
you fed me,
you carried me upstairs,
and drew me a warm bath.
You compelled me,
dressed me,
sat me down and prepared me.
pushed me on the right path.
Similar experiences you have seen,
your past drifted into my present,
motivated me to get sober and clean,
to grow up and be independent.
Same parents,
related through blood,
I was crippled and paralyzed,
It was you, Karen,
the only one who understood,
my big sister I idolized.
Date Written: December 21, 2015
{“When I dunk my head in holy water, to rid myself of your poison. Hatred circuits through my veins at the delusional expectancy I have clasped. I let my nucleus out of its solitary incarceration; a cage and allowed it to spiral against your wings, perhaps it was a mistake or perhaps it was not.
I understand too extensively and it ravages me, as the preadolescence of our humanity.
How much more plunges of sharp needle stick knives are we going to take? How many junctures are we going to lose our minds? How many times are our hearts going to shatter into the cold stone bricks of our encompassed cooped-in apartment? How many times am I going to hurl everything into the brick walls and wail; even though I cannot? They keep it all befouled in, clandestine, we secure the locks to our hearts.
Nonentity can get in and nobody can get out, ultimately that particular somebody found a way. Don’t they always?
I had believed I consigned to the grave my soul at the sound of your voice; seven feet under, with no withdrawal nor to escape. As The snow comes clattering, my indicators shiver as does my body, it trembles at the thought of you; I curse myself for my stupidity. I shan’t think of you. A curse I cannot undo, that that is rigorously what you are. Shall we harvest the seeds of love? It is the season of merit after all. And as the sprouts thrive, prosper, and blossom into a miscellany of flowers.
Either lavender or a cactus; either it stings or it mends. Either it desecrates you or it mends you, you wither away. The soil you ravish and push aside as you engrave in that particular hole and take out your soul from your gut, your core, and you …
push, push, push.
Seven feet under, you sheathe it with a cactus.
As if you have taken Xanax, you let your body go, numb to the core, you feel frivolity. That was rigorously what you were reckoned to discern in the first niche. entirely nothing. You are the drug, the dosage, the needle; I am the victim of your creation, if I don’t endure you I drown. Though if I do, you slither around me and staple your canines into my protruding collarbone, and suck in your toxin, a deadly poisonous substance which makes me go numb, it succumbs throughout my body. It feels heavenly, Though I am not free. We are never free.
Either we love,
Or we die."}
Self-pity became my days in so
many messed up ways,
if only the bottle in my right hand didn’t stay.
I knew I hit rock bottom-
I knew I was reaching near death-
I knew no time could save me,
as I took my last breath.
Flatline,
the fate of mine-
I ran out of time-
for I had become so darn depressed.
A heartbeat appeared as my family feared
I’d never be the same again-
Could there be damage from this affliction
due to my addiction?
I eventually lost all my friends.
I never contemplated ending my life,
for I was a mother and a wife-
I wanted to free myself with grace,
oh, the look upon my husband’s face…
Recovery seemed so far,
as a new flavor of life I craved to taste.
I didn’t want to live a life of waste.
I awoke one morning in
withdrawal and mourning,
for I needed a fix to survive-
But I pulled through and strived
for one more day and had the
strength to stay alive.
A look into my future with a fresh
sewn-on suture,
a mending needle and thread
pulled through with ease-
I needed to rid my life of the rumors,
and needed recovery much sooner
to rid me of this awful disease.
I had a sister back then who
saved me from myself-
I overcame with determination
without contemplation and
fully recuperated to good health.
I needed no wealth,
just sincere motivation and put
that old book upon my top shelf.
For I needed to be free from temptation.
Support groups I attended and many loving
people I befriended and with good counsel
I learned to love within-
God knew my honest life was intended as I
fit in and blended and this battle
I fought I did win.
I may have a broken wing that could never heal,
but this injury reminds of how I don’t wish to feel.
For my past has brought me much adoration,
and forever I shall try to fly in sincere celebration.
The life I hold is completely genuine and real,
as I continue my journey with...
...healthy moderation.
*I will always be grateful for my "broken wing". Thank you for this contest it caused much healing.*
Broken Wing Contest
April 10, 2017
I have wandered into a human stew of inopportunity, as my marriage/love/parental life have all come to an abrupt closure, noncompliance and final withdrawal from any real meaning. Am I dead yet? Not necessarily, but it seems that entity is not so remotely absent from my thoughts, as it once was given the supposed social tenure of our powers to control our nature, so now it seems "stupid" to even begin to engage a strategy, plan, answer to reclaim that "Lost Horizon" that will put me, us back into a Nirvanal state of eloquent bliss so aptly stated in the substantive, ****, vows we still take when we engage, marry, obligate, consumate, consecrate, and you know the rest. Grandchildren as quickly as possible. Forget the "Happy Couple" and all of their existance desires/wants/needs. Thank u socialization/domestication for ruining the fertile pastures of real love and affection. Feed the economy, we need workers/bosses, CEO's, sell, buy everything, produce, produce and produce. Keep us ever informed with all the trinkets which keep us isloated, unemotional and spur inhumanity to all that terse that tricky transient torment of T-U-V-W-X-Y-Z bytes, or in whatever compuscale u eat, that only serves to further the noncommunication life of our species. I only exist within myself in this space. Are my thoughts my own or just a reflection of what I receive? Do I exist? When I answer, am I being true or is it a stated recording of past sequences that are familiar in a patterened sense of my former being? My salience, remorse, continued presence upon this Earth is at best questionable? Meaningless? For me, the current standards of being have become to contentious; the stupidity, too overwhelming; the ignorance, too unbearable; the incompetence/divisiveness/poor judgement/antiquated/uneducated thinking/acting/feeling, our illustrious president, his supporters, henchmen, cronies, nepotism, DFA and their anything-but-a proactive approach to problem solving for the benefit of us all, leaves me in a lackluster quandry of whether, "To Be Or Not To Be? Believe me baby, that is MY question! My God, and I am not a religious person, but in the fin al analysis, you will reap what you sow!!!!!!!!! And I will laugh. I like "mushrooms" with my atomic grilled steak. No waiting.
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.