The passion of hatred is so long lived and so obstinate a malady that the surest sign of death in a sick person is their desire for reconciliation.
quote by Jean de la Bruyere
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sick of You
I am sick.....I am sick of you......I am sick of this life.....lived it long and good.....but now I am sick of you and the life I lead.....sick and weak.....this life I led.....but not any more......it shall end.....this sickness shall end.....I am sick of you yelling and what you say.....I am sick of this life and all I have done.....if I could go back I might....I remember walking out the front door and saying 'I love you'.......but that was then and this is now.....I have lived it long and good......but I am sick of it......staying awake and wondering 'what did I do'? ......I AM SICK OF YOU AND THIS LIFE I LED.....
poem by Dallas Stevens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the long night
In the long night
The long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
The summer heat
How obstinate
It is:
Yet in the night
The long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
And winter frost
And neighing wind
Behind the window panes
And doors:
And the shrill call
Of nightingales
In Spring:
No difference will make:
For
In the long, long night
How bright
The light of passion shines!
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Femme Fatale
My soul is sick, soon I will die
I seek the comfort of the grave.
I suffer from love’s malady
and may not have the love I crave.
I yield I am no longer brave
My love has made me cowardly
There’s little left that I would save.
My soul is sick, soon I will die
She spurns my love so easily
though I would be her willing slave.
Regarding me contemptibly.
I seek the comfort of the grave.
Her sins I readily forgave
although she acted wantonly.
I saw her as a soul to save.
I suffer from loves malady.
This love will be the death of me.
She sees me as a spineless knave
and so treats me disdainfully.
I may not have the love I crave.
She gladly took all that I gave
and played with me dishonestly.
I’m fevered now and left to rave.
She has no further use for me.
My soul is sick.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hatred can never be good. … Here, and in what follows, I mean by hatred only hatred towards men. … Envy, derision, contempt, anger, revenge, and other emotions attributable to hatred, or arising therefrom, are bad … Whatsoever we desire from motives of hatred is base, and in a State unjust.
quote by Baruch Spinoza
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
poem by Ernest Dowson
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Non Sum Qualis eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cynara
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death is not the end For M'lady Ernestine
Death is not the end.
A ray of sunlight penetrates
the quiet gloom of the sick room
Wherein a dying lady waits.
For death to call impatiently.
She has no fear she is content
To know that soon she will be free.
For ninety years she’s done her best.
To her the sunlight seems to be
A sign that she has passed the test.
The ray of light eventually
illuminates her final smile.
She passes over quietly.
Her empty shell lies peacefully.
Almost as if she slumbered still.
Her spirit soars triumphantly.
Towards the light she hopes to see.
Remaining faithful to the end
She goes ahead confidently.
She has outlived her family
and all her friends are long since dead.
She lived her life successfully.
She lived and died competently
and she passed on with no regrets.
To start a new life hopefully.
Wednesday,30 June 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My burning desire to create
MY BURNING DESIRE TO CREATE
So intense and so powerful
Like a furious burning fire
My desire to create is so powerful
So painful and so throbbing
Like a hungry child crying for food
My desire to create is so hopeful
So rigid and so consistent
Like a passionate entrepreneur
My passion to create is so unshakeable
Every hour that passes by I want to create
Every moment I spend I long to create
I have a living urge and desire to create
A living passion to express myself
A burning desire to live my true life
Sometimes I hide myself in the midst of business
At times I deliberately cloud my space with my busy life
Sometimes I try to hide away from my passion to create
Sometimes I try to narrow down the size of my passion
But regardless of all my efforts my desire always finds me
I am so transparent inside, my passion to create
Has invaded all my privacy inside
So strong and so powerful
Like a helpless child looking for love and security
My desire to create is so seeking and so burning.
poem by Tsholofelo Mooketsi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tired Of Not Being Me
Tired of being compared to everyone else
Tired of never being good enough
So sick of being hated for something I am and loved for what I’m not
I’m sick of coming last
So now I’m putting myself 1st
I’m not going to waste a single second of my life trying to please anyone else
Why bother wasting my time on them when
I have to face my own fears and fight my own battles
I can’t do everything for everyone
I can’t make everyone happy even though I try or used to try
Because now my life is about me
Yes it may sound self centered
But when you think about it I have lived my life trying to please everyone else
I’m sick of playing games
Sick of pretending to be something I’m not
I’m sick of hiding behind this mask
So I give up now
Its time to take a stand
Time to be my own person
Take my own hand
No longer trying to please anyone but me
poem by Rebekka Bear
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He's So Sick
He's so sick to think that I'm the one who did something wrong
He's so sick to think that I'm the one who wouldn't leave him alone
He's so sick to think that he could actually think that I wanted him
All I could say is Yuck
How did I get stuck with a person who is so sick to think of me like that
All I can say is If only Jermaine just knew that much I know he would surely snap and cause a commotion
I'm so glad that this person will graduate and will finally be gone and leave me alone
poem by Chelsea Houston
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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OH! I can't SAY that....(a revision)
I'm sick of f\%king Facebook,
sick of emails,
sick of people talking,
sick of my work radio beeping,
I'm sick of words.
I am being cluttered to death by words....
I am sick of listening to crazies on the bus,
sick of television spewing out banality.
Sick of voices, sick of billboards, sick of typing.
I am word sick.
I am sick of people
The more they let me know them the less I care.
I don't care what your baby did.
don't give a f$ck about what you ate for dinner.
I don't even f*ckin care if your grandpa died.
Sick, sick, sick, I am making myself sick
just writing this sh#t down.
Nothing anyone has to say is of any importance at all
that includes me.
I am drowning in words, and voices, and mundane ideas.
I am sick of people trying to 'set the world on fire'
But I do wish them luck....
because some men just want to see the world burn.
I'm sick of f&cking texts and even more sick of phone calls.
I am sick of adverts on the telly.
I am fed up with peoples life stories.
I don't care what you have been through,
as long as you will let me sleep with you.
And I will only sleep with you
if you promise to wear a ball gag.
poem by Brevet Wilson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Same As I
i get so tired
of writing poems
about suffering....
but everywhere i look,
all around me,
people are hurting....
and try as i might,
i cant close my eyes,
cant shut my ears up
to the sounds of need and want.
and i cannot be silent
as long as there's one person
who is not free,
one person whose rights
have been violated....
one person who is hungry,
one person who is homeless,
one person sick who cannot
get medical care....
one person abused, enslaved,
or treated like property...
i cannot, and i will not stop,
for they are the same
as i... i see their faces
every time i look in the mirror!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sickening Love
Sickening Love
I am in love
I am love sick
my passion is burning
my desire is inflamed
my lust is feverish
I am a love sick man
I am a sick man
my love for her is sickening
call an ambulance
- Commonline Project, October 2008 -
poem by Suchoon Mo_
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Passion Is Power Transformative
passion creates no choice
passion productivity produce
passion desire compels excels
passion is power transformative
passion is creation seductive
passion is emotive abilities
passion is mind romance
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Passion
A passion found, is a passion to keep
A passion felt, is a passion to be kept
Poetry from the heart, poetry from the soul,
Poetry I have always felt,
There are many passions in
this world but none like this one, which you can
always return too when you feel lost or
feel you have something to say
I love thee yet, I love thee more
but with words I can express thee hence more
Sometimes life feels too complex to find the one with the same passion as you share,
Someone that understands you for you, not only the external you, but the inner you,
Someone that understands your thoughts and passions in life; pleasure is one thing but
Once that desire for pleasure with that person has been diminished,
what is there, nothing, a desire gone and lost,
yet to say I yearn, and can't wait till I find the one that shares the same passion and desires as I do
poem by Coker George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love and Hatred
Love is not so heavy as hatred,
Love is gentle and soothing,
While hatred is rude and disturbing,
Love is an attribute of God,
While hatred is the quality of devil,
Love makes,
Hatred mars,
Love teaches how to live,
Hatred is tired of life,
Love is soft as gentle rain,
Hatred is hard as drought,
Love is deep like an ocean,
Hatred is shallow without commotion,
Love makes sacrifice,
Hatred escapes sacrifice,
Love is everlasting,
Hatred is transcient,
Love releases fragrance,
While hatred stinks,
Love relies on heart,
Hatred relies on mind,
Love loses,
Hatred gains,
In a nutshell,
Love is life,
Hatred is death,
So let's spread love.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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Broadband
By this time of trouble and hatred,
On this day of love and passion,
With this hour of war and death,
But i have my mind still on you;
For truth backs up the facts and love crowns the day,
And i am lying on my bed lonely to write this poem.
Broadband of words and the broadband of views,
With the readers on line to catch up with my mind;
But how can we break this cycle of hatred around us?
Hatred, war and sickness;
I have connected my life to reach out to the realms! !
But, who will be on my side?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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If a Daughter You Have
If a daughter you have, she's the plague of your life,
No peace shall you know, tho' you've buried your wife,
At twenty she mocks at the duty you taught her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Sighing and whining,
Dying and pining,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
When scarce in their teens, they have wit to perplex us,
With letters and lovers for ever they vex us,
While each still rejects the fair suitor you've brought her,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
Wrangling and jangling,
Flouting and pouting,
O, what a plague is an obstinate daughter.
poem by Richard Brinsley Sheridan
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It's a bad sign when the sick person tosses and turns in bed.