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.
First day of the week is about believing --
what you see is what you get after striving
First day in school is about excitement
a combination of fear and amusement
First day of pay at work is about engagement --
engaging in gimmicks, parties and payment
First day is what everybody is waiting for
a sunny day, rainy day or snowy day
First day is about dreaming
dreaming of something without spending
First day of training is winning
winning without jerking
First day is New Year's Day
this is why not all countries have the same calendar for Christmas Day
First day in the gym is showmanship --
cuteness with sportsmanship
First day can also be the last day
just started and not finishing, with or without pay
... is about counting what you want to have
same first day when you fell asleep working too hard to keep a job
... is about resurrection
after reminiscing your old creation
... is about parenting
single or married, you are unrelenting
... is about renewal
a dowry, backpay or withdrawal
...is about rewards
after long months or years of not moving backwards
... is about a period
only for females, stars of myriad
... is about forgiving
giving without parental conditioning
... is about driving
seated and tranquil while smiling
... is a debut
what is what, who is who
... is like a prom
you get hugged or dragged in a ring apron...
What is your "First Day" about?
In your temple, you rewrite me with glass letters, infinitely breaking me,
And I pronounce the mantra of forgiveness, like a saint in the agony of purifying ecstasy.
Her voice vibrated, a flame in the storm, signing with the pain etched on her face,
Her finger trembling toward itself, a lost guide in the labyrinth of withdrawal.
"Why do I return to you, after you've walked me through the hell of suffering?"
There's a psalm in me, echoing, polished by the intangible dream of an answer.
Her words are like gashes in flesh, the sour of indifference cutting deep,
"I'm caught in this turbulent circle, where I can do nothing but welcome you again,
Even with a broken soul, knowing all too well, you will step into the sanctuary once more."
A metempsychosis of longing, in a cage of time, where your shadows heal in their wandering,
I carry my dream towards you, passing through the moon's fleeting multitudes.
With each reliving, a penumbra in the cutting wind, a tale with blackened pages,
Understanding with a tacit gleam, that your gates, even shattered, always wait for me open.
And so, a ballerina in the masquerade of renunciation and rediscovery, I step into the round of forgetting,
My spirit, a tapestry soaked with torment and aspiration, fluttering in the eternal story,
With every redemption of fidelity, the dance grows tighter, pulling me away from silence,
But I refuse to close the gates of the heart's understanding.
In this pantheon of the eternally slumbering, where twilight brings no amnesty,
I trace the sparks from this fateful detail, with a heart like a butterfly on an altar of forgiveness.
Compassion Fatigue
Resentment looks a lot like Narcan in a sharp
and feels like it’s forcing out my will.
I grab them both; Naloxone and the tarp,
the outcome undetermined by my skill.
Same guy, same place, same drug; third time today,
his unresponsive body cold to touch.
Compassion has fatigued and crawled away,
when I see something tiny in his clutch;
A crucifix, a cross is glinting gold.
Immediate withdrawal floods through his veins;
I’ve plunged the needle, and I tightly hold;
his bloodied eyes snap alive with pain
despite the death wish of his toxic dope,
a Savior finds him worthy of His hope.
the old men in their dress suits,
uniform of their trade
talked away for days
until a type of peace was made
and the troops could come back home
from peacekeeping in the land
a face saving formula
with the withdrawal all planned
and out in the real world
the factions of left and right
survived in spite of the invasion
quietly prepared to restart their fight
in a land made even more desolate
than before the invasion began
until there emerged again
a dominant leading man
and that tyranny
supposedly overthrown
emerged from the shadows
regenerated and re-grown
and the old men in their dress suits
seeing the stability of command
forget the dead maimed and dying
and shake the bloodied hands
a carnage for nothing
for when all is said and done
if tyranny wears a different face
has any victory been really won
Sad are the dreams that will never happen.
Obscured in the fragile years, where we dwell.
Trampled by turmoil, when all hope is thin,
Buried by reasons as it says farewell.
Sad are the tears that always fall silent,
Trails of loneliness down time's empty hall.
Cupped were the hands, closed without consent,
Still vanquished of truth as the dreams withdrawal.
Sad are the minutes that turn into days,
Now passing streams that flash in the head.
Turning and turning, a tunnel that stays,
Trapped in its darkness as each dream has fled.
Balled in a world with hands and knees bent
Nothing to give, as the spirit is spent.
9/20/15
Don't look at me that way
everything you touch tends to slip away
I know you, your tactics and your ploys
how many others were just play toys?
Let me go, set my heart free
you and I were never meant to be
close your eyes and slowly walk away
there's nothing else to say.
I may look back, regret the years
but time eventually wipes away the tears
and you and I were just casual interludes
knowing the moment when love is no longer pursued.
I let you go, the memories and all
recognizing blue eyes fade in the withdrawal
and the brief encounter shared between two fools
never remain the most precious jewels.
Don't look at me that way
everything we touched slips away
and all that's left is history
treasures mingled in forgotten mystery.
she hung once more upside down from her own cross
nails painted crimson and blood on the ripped loin cloth
which barely covered her conscience gripped by desire
and meaningless slaughter on the spread sheet of acid
sweet sour bile dripped from diversified levitation for
the magic mushrooms must have been out of date while
the snake in paradise hissed at the fig leaf of her brain
‘mind the gap’ her decayed teeth warned but Faustus
danced with Leviathan to mute such obscene suggestion
and yet when she reached the rock bottom of hallucination
comprehended that glass ceilings were there to be shattered
and that shards are a mosaic of change waiting to happen
she cancelled her subscription with the dealer on speed dial
pain oozed from withdrawal and refused to give precedence
to joy and enlightenment until she lit a sandalwood candle
deepened awareness softened attention and the scented wax
healed wounds scars blisters and denial of injured defeat
anger anxiety boredom rage and insufferable depression
still bore the shadows of toxic flames of past dependence
but when the message set in she wore the battle with pride
she missed the mania fake omnipotence and white powder
but when she embraced darkness rays of hope prevailed
mindfulness became a truth devoid of habitual craving
09th June 2021
In the tapestry of life, memories weave their threads, and the echoes of past workplaces linger like faint perfume. Seacrest, with its morning shifts and graveyard hours, left an indelible mark—a mix of disdain and nostalgia. The Stench, both literal and metaphorical, clings to the corridors of memory.
Retirement, a withdrawal from life’s hustle, offers solace. It’s like stepping out of a turbulent river into a calm pond. Yet, self-reflection creeps in—an inventory of wasted years spent in an institution were money reigned supreme. What good remains? The ledger is blank, the balance elusive.
Here, at sixty, sanity is my prayer. A few screws may be loose, but not enough to rattle the Monkey cages of life’s absurdity. Kindness flows, a gentle current, but I know it can backfire—a vulnerability in a world that thrives on sharp edges.
And you, a familiar face, a reminder: “This path, tread cautiously.” In my next life, I’ll be a poet—a real one, successful and unyielding. A master tinker, weaving words into magic. A philosopher, unraveling life’s mysteries.
But for now, I am Annie—the content creator, the mother, the friend in need. And perhaps, that’s enough.
Ode To The Hourglass
E'er spent in the margin of its clutch of us,
We breathe its granules in nighttide befallen,
Wanderers adrift campaign design to thus,
Daytime withdrawal of star hole we crawl in,
Be of that horizon art great plentitude,
A minuscule scope be a grand solitude,
The vast separateness, still, purposed value,
Withal, dissolve in its depths, I and shall you,
Sands prey unto gravitational split palm,
smattering contributions from character,
exfoliates abruptly the sedate calm,
genteel indiscernible that surrender,
the retired bit is given in chambered rest,
that visualness measuring of time's quest,
allowing the said duties of weightiness,
do the essential action of sublimeness.
2020 March 02
Howmanysyllables;
16 lines x 11 syllables per = 176 syllables total
I have a relative who was super tender-hearted.
Harry put everyone else’s feelings ahead of his own.
He had several wives and they all took advantage of him.
I figured he found them slithering under granite.
Many were beauties, but we saw their scales after a while.
Harry never did.
Harry was dyslexic like most of our family.
He never learned to read.
His third wife Tasha was a piece of wonderment.
She ran off with another guy,
but begged him to keep her on his checking account.
He did.
Harry was called to the bank one day.
All of his checks for the month had bounced.
The bank president showed him statements.
Harry could not read the words.
They said WITHDRAWAL $300 every day.
Tasha’s work no doubt.
Harry’s sister convinced him to take Tasha’s name off.
He called Tasha to apologize.
During the phone call Tasha said, “I am still on your life insurance right?”
He said “Uh-huh,” until he told his sister.