Short Restrictive Poems
Short Restrictive Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Restrictive by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Restrictive by length and keyword.
Heart shaped stone on a band of gold
Once brought happiness and promises...
Today the band is restrictive;
The stone has lost it's luster
Time takes, dims and withers
emotions are sad and numb to reality
Waiting for...
MEASURES OF PREFERENCES
a restrictive
repeatedly
lasting
influence
of
luminous
niche-like
significance
encircled
stylized
illusions
&clarity
of
intentions
with
nuanced
coincidences
prone to
bouts of
spontaneous
impulsive
self-restrictive
avoidant
emotive
interactions
full of in-actions
that appeared
to come on
suddenly
automatically
without prior
planning so
it seemed at the
time
got to the poe...
at tree site
admission being...
coded restrictive
entered...
and stood
before...
a mirror to
toil....
letting my
reflection...
be as the
entry code...
p n u
sounded...
pee'n you
stans sand
COUNTENANCE
attention
to detail
with
the
passion
of
subtle
expression
the
stark
instinct
blurring
reality
in
the
indistinct
recognition
so
restrictive
demonstates
an identical
purpose
to
overwhelm
in
relief
The day is long
the night short
filled with restless dreams
crisscrossing imagery
of fictional and unfamiliar parties
trying hard to encumber life
by restrictive containments
anxious in the tossing and turning,
fearful wakening
only to find
it is reality.
Coming from my hand,
I knew the story well!
Putting words to paper;
somewhat tough now,
but; altogether,
tougher when imagined
For, that's what imagination is.
It's a free thing:
Not,eliciting restrictive parameters:
more; a seizing notion that perpetuates.
Untamed unruly
Insubordinate strands coiled into a restrictive pose
Chemical warfare and arson to my scalp to straighten you out
For a while you complied but you always get tangled up in a mess
Arrested for disorderly conduct
Failing to yield to a comb
Robbing me of my sanity
This delinquency I can’t tolerate
So I had to lock you up
Grey rabbit... White paper...
I am the grey rabbit
Snared, trapped by restrictive wires
Unseen
I reach for the quill of significance
Yet she teases
Just a tug too far
Ink wells spilt upon verde grass
Parchment paper
Leaves me parched
I cannot paint nor write
My fluffy tails lost it's sheen
I'm off down the burrow
To lick my wounds
And
Ensure my hovels clean
I could buy you a present
And it could go one way or the other
But, I know a bouquet of flowers
Will make you a happy Mother
I was going to send this to my Mom
But for some reason it didn't sound "Quiet right"
.....and due to the restrictive number of characters on the card
I settled for this ...
Violets are blue
And roses are red
So, I'm sending you
Colorful Tulips instead. Ha!
On rain drenched mornings
words may feel too heavy
to absorb dense Truth,
May smell too bleached
to taste thin Beauty,
May sound too restrictive
to recreate revolutionary visions.
Yet, absence of words
may sound too drenched
in universal drizzle
to comfort,
to circulate lively blood
for warm interior climate cleansing
Rain water
distilling
tomorrow's more fertile
silent soil
silk skinned soul.
I fear I have little time
I've lost all that is mine
From this world I will soon resign
I'm afraid the stars just didn't align
Setup for failure by design
I was always out of line
All I loved will confine
itself into a restrictive fine
Nowhere to recline
Nothing to enshrine
Watch it continue to decline
Because it's no longer mine to define
I fear I have no time
In this world we've been forced to consign
A mother that hears the cry of her baby
does not turn deaf ears to show indifference.
A woman prepared for a culinary task,
by all means, gathers the condiments required.
A barricadoed road, however restrictive,
suffices not to keep an incubating hen off her eggs.
A nocturnal darkness does not stand to disorientate
a hand to miss its way to the mouth.
Scavenging any available heaps in sight
reflects the missing of a valuable.
Inside my head, I hold a thought,
Sweet thoughts that guide my pen to write,
And as I write the ink is naught,
Naught but words upon their flight.
A little thought begins to grow,
It grows beyond restrictive mind,
The mind with words must let it flow,
A flow of thought in ink defined.
In words of love and words of hate,
The hateful verse that spews from death,
The death of words must surely wait,
Await the thought on poet’s breath.
Form: Wreathed Quatrain