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Metaphor Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Metaphor

These Metaphor Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Metaphor. These are the best examples of Metaphor Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |

I Disappear

wake up to serendipity
ignorant and unknown
shaken and not stirred
blond can be bond

Reality, metaphor and cliche
cheesy juvenile decay
Love, care and hate
past the use by date

of fights and torment
and well deserved lament
salute to the solitary reaper
with Metallica... I disappear


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Stiff Upper Lip

It was with immense fortitude that he endured the pain.
His back was arched and head rose as he strode down the thoroughfare.
No one need know what lurked behind his eyes. 
Although in all honesty he wanted someone to know what lay behind his eyes. 
He composed his mind determined to ride this one out,
“Ok…I’m fine…I’m fine…there’s nothing wrong” he kept saying as if it were a mantra.

A few minutes passed. Finally, the steely gaze was drawn across his face. 
His lip no longer quivered. 
His heart no longer tightened. 
For now, he was a detached dispassionate walking skeleton, nothing to call human here!
Even the sight of a mangled kitten wouldn’t render a response.

My manners are now controlling my passion; they are forever in my debt.
Like Wellington, I’m going to have to grin and bear it!   
Throw my deepest love into a raging, scorching inferno, as it will only get in the way of my duty!
I shall never succumb to societies miss giving’s. Never shall I spew forth my sensibilities to the stranger in the street. My convictions are too honest to cheapen that.

A friend, however, has the misfortune or privilege to walk among my thoughts. 
I know that we will walk hand in hand into Daedalus’ Labyrinth, a Minotaur at every corner. Never knowing if we shall return. Nonetheless we do it together.
Judgement is never passed. A grimace expression will never rise from your face.

Only in your presence can I remove the mask. 
Only in your presence can I let my lip tremble.
Only in your presence can I let my heart feel the despair. 
…

Be that as it may, once I leave the comforts of your abode I shall once again display the stiff upper lip. 


By Michael Mearns




Copyright ©Michael Mearns


Details | Prose Poetry |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.


Details | Prose Poetry |

POETIC JUSTICE --VIRTUE OVER VICE

“POETIC JUSTICE” (VIRTUE OVER VICE)

Virtue over vice—who will pay the price
Ironic twists of fate are flawed if virtue does not equal reward
Logic needs to triumph—to beat and defeat
The tragedy of treachery that strives to cheat and repeat

Try to see outside myself and understand the eyes
To analyze, theorize, recognize and polarize
Excuse all the highs that terrorize
Unacknowledged trauma’s are like wounds that never heal
Never feel—on a constant wheel—a terrible price to pay for sin
Until at last the outside matches the justice
History written on the body—a canvas of poetry
In the end, reality, the price to pay would be too great
Too much at stake 
Comfort zones obliterated, confusion reiterated
What then… the end?

Life seems slow to reach conclusion
To wait, turn back, to stop or go
To fly or dive when there is no restraint or self control

 Deceit makes it hard to separate the self
Seeking truth above the easy way out
To shout, express doubt, to dropout--- burnout


Justice is tested through another’s eyes
Disguising their own lies as they spy and deny
The poetry of playing the same game
Camouflaged by another name—to shame blame and disclaim

Does virtue win the day?
Or vice have its say and inevitably stay
Does it triumph and receive reward?
Or is logic a masquerading fraud 

The poetry in justice must ultimately distrust and adjust this
Lift the darkness
Make it painless, nameless and stainless
The punishment… its sword






Details | Prose Poetry |

Drowning

Gasping for air. . . you strain your neck; stretching..you look around, checking.
Struggling to keep the pace. . . you're movements, fluctuating; you panic, you try floating.
Screaming for help. . .  no one is around, you wish for a miracle; you're wheezing, yelp not helping.
Giving, no one is reaching. . . the waves starting to bring you down; you fight, your Will diminishing.
Vanishing. . . your light dimming; They look from afar, will they notice you're drowning?


Details | Prose Poetry |

A Super Man

The rise and fall of a broken soul; the pressure was too much to bear
The letter S was too brave to wear. He was a symbol, a pure form of admiration. Yet his life was 
not his own; full grown; denied the freedom of one’s true life journey
He could never fathom an opportunity of free will for he lived to will free others who hide in his 
silhouette
The darkest shadow brought an abundance of light to the needy. And greedy.
An unadorned model of self-less love dug him an early grave being a slave to aiding. Although 
help was never offered to a man that had a sense of direction. Every step forward followed 
echoing steps behind.
His feet became a carrier. The load was heavy
Regret was constant. Where was kryptonite when he needed it?


Details | Prose Poetry |

The hand named Love

There is a hand out there
and it is named Love;
don't be alarmed,
for she is a lovely hand and she smiles at you,
yet I can't find her to save my life.
If you find that hand called love,
please could someone shake it for me,
yes- please shake it for me.

.2.10.2014.


Details | Prose Poetry |

A bed of Ashes

I found myself needing something more than a tender curve of dimly lit flesh.
I needed a woman's fire that could stoke my soul into a living rage.
I needed a courageous lioness to teethe my muse and let the pain
in my brain bleed unto the Earthy canvas before me.
The salt of my skin wept unto her, and she made it steam.
She was a cleansing fury that damned the man I once was.
She tore me apart so that I could become something new.
Sometimes there is beauty in destruction,
sometimes forgiveness is born out of pain.
She let it rain inside of me when she left,
and I found myself in a bed of ashes.
A new man.
 
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Blood on the Mirror

You prod at the sores of your heart
with a hemorrhaging pen, wishing it was 
a scalpel; so you could carve 
out the disease that keeps 
your rage alive. 
Basic instinct, I suppose.
To slay the demons,
that made you who you are. 
You thank them for your posture,
but scold the obsidian eyes in the 
mirror. What you have become:
Callous, and engulfed in the 
rotting theater you thought 
you controlled. The reigns 
have broken loose, your 
skull whips in the wind of 
chaos. It’s not really your 
sort of dance, you know…
                                      You don’t know the steps
              …you don’t even know the song. 
It drums against your flesh
as if you were already stripped 
and tanned, spread across 
the hallowed instruments 
                             of reckoning.
But you can’t hear the chant,
only the distant hum of the
butcher who said you could
call him “friend”.
That you were safe,
if only you would show him
what you promised you would
never show anyone.
It drips,
            thick,
                      coagulated,
                                           dirty.
Just like every part of you,
you wish you could burn;
As you dig the covenant,
into the flesh of your enemy;
                                          Your only true, enemy. 
The mirror cracks…
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.


Details | Prose Poetry |

dry your tears

dry your tears
death has gone
and I am here,
no fear my love
no fear my dear

no fear for love is a monster
with flowers for hair
and a warm heart with a sore thumb,
no fear my dear, for love will not eat you-
but in turn will make you smile and laugh
-with a joke or two-
(about a fool in love)
and love shall sing you a song
and lead you to me
so my love don't cry
dry your tears
for I am here now,
no fear my love...
...no fear my dear...

.1.6.2014.


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