These Angst Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Angst. These are the best examples of Angst Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Insomnia, familiar friend,
crawled into bed this summer night
so once again, inflamed with dread
I wander now in pitch of dark
and touch the places, now by heart, that sprawl unstirred by weary minds
This lonely place, where I used to come
where armless grief, and headless doubt
and worry filled the rooms
I know you cold, my land of oz
So ruthless do you change your face
into a place I once refrained
But, don't pretend to make me fear, toxic robber of my sleep
I've known you much too long
You masquerade in shades of gray
And now I know that dark of night, is not the blackest thing
And room by room, I'll play the game
until the light of day
The shadows magnify your art
and though they magnify my loss of sleep
and while I've tossed and turned in vain
I've lost the lonely albatross
that pulled against the grain
From hooded thresholds I embark
to find a language of the dark
A liquid language of a mystic night,
that switches on the light
I've walked the halls of ghosts I knew, and those I hope to meet
I've felt the stares, and shared myself, no secrets left to keep
But not tonight, familiar friend
you bask in myth I understand
I'll fill the tasks that need my hands, until the light of day...
For Leonora Galinta's Contest
Once bloomed a rose so young and fair
With dark brown eyes and long black hair
Beside her be a tall dark tree
Whose branches stretch to smother thee
Too close beside the shadowy bark
That soon begins to leave its mark
She cries for help, but none shall hear
Her thorns too sharp, who’d dare go near?
To save this rose, who’d risk their life?
With naught to gain but pain and strife
Alone, afraid, she lays to rest
Her heart beats low inside her chest
And with the hour growing near
She sheds her final grieving tear
And so the rose soon falls asunder
Her final day, eternal slumber
She lies beside the old dark tree
The only one who mourns for thee
The phone rings empty into the night.
Filling a void that brings strange comfort
to thoose around.
Rage eats away untill it bores a hole
straight through are hearts.
Whiskey cauterizes the wound.
Alone with fools we gather.
The bitter ones taking to there barstools.
the weak look to punish thoose happy
Who dare to feel anything in the place of
She left so many years befor.
At least her mortal soul did.
I rememeber when it was when I still
dared to dream.
Long befor reallity was a friend.
Motions keep us living.
She spoke but the words were empty as her heart.
So as strangers we parted just as we met.
With a bitter taste I never did reply.
The phone rang it's last time.
I herd it echo farewell down the hall.
I had to go so I never unlocked the door.
i just left my emotions hanging like some
forgotten coat pushed back in
Its been almost a year since that phone filled
the emptyness of my soul.
If only I had answered.
Raven was Death. She dwelt in death. She lived on death. Ages past, she had worn
the blue-black, purple, feathers of the raven and dined on royalty at Tower hill. A
tumble from grace had lodged her here in this fragile form. No more would her maw
drip ruby red, no more would her caw fill the mourning, or her soaring flight slice
the air like a Frenchman’s sword. A Raven, with clipped wings, was she.
Centuries had passed since she, in her feathered form, had feasted on the King.
**Bran the Blessed, giant, King of Wales, had been her down fall. Cursed was she,
as she dined on his eyes, in the field of battle. Ah, what did a raven know
of the curses of man. But, she knew now. Bran's head was placed,
as a talisman, on the grounds of Tower Keep in Londontown. She,
transformed, cursed, walks the night in this beautiful, weak, human vessel for
as long as, Bran's name is remembered.
Her satin-sandaled feet hold her earthbound. Just as superstition
holds her clip-winged brethren in the Tower courtyard, Bran's Curse holds her here.
No longer can she fly, but, she is free to roam. The churchyard calls her. Ashen skies no longer welcome her, but the gravestones, spade-shaped like the tails of carrion feeder, beckon. The evening corpse has arrived. Draped in mourning weeds of black, her death-like pall, luminescent in the moonlight, her lips a tell-tale crimson, she arms her self with a firebrand. The bluish steel glistens. Death with a gun, certainly, one could see the
over kill? She laughs. Looking skyward, she calls. “Husband*, children…”
she mimicks the caw of her unfettered kin. “Come to Ma Ma..dinner is served.”
*Raven's mate for life...or death? ;)
**Bran is the Welsh word for Raven/ King Bran the Blessed
What is it like to be a sex god?
To know the exact spot that will rock their worlds in ways
never seen before and never seen again, their parting words,
You are a God!
To have them scream your name, knowing
as soon as they’re gone you sit alone,
eating cold spaghetti from a can,
as you continue to detach yourself from
another emotionless encounter.
Nonetheless, they know you’re a god.
What is it to be this god with
so many lovers yet never knowing some names,
or what should solidify what you’ve shared?
The object of their fantasies yet to never see
“I love you” in their eyes, or hear it from
the lips of one lying beside you the next morning,
for there’s no one there.
What is it to be a sex god ruling none
for once those words are uttered, their worship is gone.
The god who rules universes of lust
where stars flash but never ignite,
leaving blackened skies crying out for full moons.
The god who has never felt another’s heart beat against his own,
who cries himself to sleep for the mistakes he’s made,
longing for the anticipation of 1,000 kisses that stand still in time?
I am this god, and I stand alone.
Pain is just another form of medication, feeding the demons that nest inside.
A temporary fix, a band aid per say, covering the secrets I am trying to hide.
I am like the right hand to the devil, with the ability to manipulate others thoughts and emotions. Exploiting there fears, insecurities and dreams, I can flip in a split second, merely to show my complete and utter devotion.
My eyes and ears are magnified by ten, a gift to some but a burden to me. I close my eyes to try and escape for a brief moment just to feel free.
Intrigued by the sharp edges of a blade, and the power that it contains. Just a simple brush across my skin, paints a beautiful portrait of red, dripping like falling drops of rain.
I hurt myself on the outside to kill the evil that lives within. I'ts relief flowing through my veins, with a rush of instant gratification to make me grin.
The truth to any story always has an open window, it will sneak it's way through. The eyes can be read like a paper back novel, every word, every image, a tragedy but true.
I'm always aware of my situation and my surroundings, even though it appears I am not paying attention. I see all, I hear all, studying anyone and everyone requires my full concentration.
Fantasying about death and the peace it brings, oddly is what makes me smile. To finally put an end to my journey in hell, only keeps me in denial.
Overwhelmed with exhaustion at the end of everyday, I lay my head to rest. I think to myself that maybe someday, I will finally pass life's test.
Summer of '99
How ironic. There I was, waking to a magnificent kaleidoscopic sky
and I had no one to share it with. I thought you'd be there but I knew
that it was too good to have lasted. It was too perfect--
you were too perfect, all the way down to your cheesy pick up
line... "Steamy Summer Love" indeed...
But what is steam anyway? I guess the love that we shared
that summer literally evaporated. All at the heat of the moment.
How cliched. But it sure burned me, now I realize how true it is
that steam is way much hotter than boiling water.
Was it all a dream? I tend to think so, but then
I finger the bracelet around my wrist,
and realize it was true after all.
Breath on breath. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
Soul to soul? I thought so.
I've come back here, to this same spot where we were a year ago,
just for me to let go.
Literally bottling up everything...
this write goes in this bottle, as well as some sand here
and your joke of a bracelet.
I'm tossing this out to sea, because that's where it belongs--
those memories to be swallowed up.
by angry waves...
Was it a fantasy? Maybe, but then I hold him close to me
and realize it wasn't. I named him Nicholas, you know.
See, I remembered your name.
Summer of 2008
I've come back to this place to mull over something rotten
I did a decade ago. And remember-- that gorgeous face,
those mesmerizing eyes and smile... that amazing spirit.
And hit myself on why I was such a fool.
Then I see this bottle, and in it is some sort of letter,
and what is this? A bracelet? An all too familiar one--
holding it in my palm, I get a chill not brought on by the sea breeze.
Reading the note, I burn up, ashen.
I then weep till my eyes and soul feel like dying.
I have a son.
and her name has escaped my memory.
** July 18 2010r06262012
Pain in my heart,
from the day you left.
Thinking that you would be next to me soon
but I guess it was too good to be true.
Why is it when I say it's going to be a good day,
I truly know it's not,
especially without you?
Pain in my heart,
feeling weak when I think of you.
Just wanting to break down and cry
but not wanting to make a show.
It's true what everyone says,
how a smile can hide pain
but this pain is too strong
for me to hide.
Pain in my heart,
waiting to hold you in my arms
but never got the chance.
Hoping there was no harm
but there was,
I know you're in a better place,
that's all that counts
but I still wish I could see your face.
Pain in my heart,
but you're happy in heaven
while I'm not well.
Trying to snap out of this misery.
depression isn't me.
Life may have ended for you
but love will not!
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
If I rewrote the story and somehow are paths
did not cross.
In temptations fire.
We would only know the cold of others.
Freezing in the silent agony unable
The statue remains its meaning erased.
As into others we will seek.
The emotions we no longer share.
Alone I am now inthe isolation of many blank
The jokes are but a wall built to conceal.
All that I am.
That I could never reveal.
Use the substances to keep you numb.
And let the voices take you to another place.
Beyond the madness there lies
beauthy in pain.
And always truth.
Destruction breeds art.
I light up in a room of vacant stares
and empty lives.
To blind in addiction to know the other does exist.
In this den like some scene from a opium parlor from the west.
Ashes hit the floor along with my pride.
This battle im losing with devilish glee.
All but nothing is left.
so in the shadows I confide.
Sometimes wisdom can come from great acts of stupidty
sometimes pain brings us closer to the truth
nothing stays buried it just lays in wait.