Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Pain Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Pain

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

12345
Details | Prose Poetry |

It Is A Sin

It is a sin for Gregory to be a miser even to himself accumulating infinite fortune with a half-bedroom to show for it It is a sin for miss Zane to gain special gratitude from her male mates. Coming late every night with a different driver, parading her flashy dividends as she becomes a model for fashion updates It is a sin for Sarah, not taking care of herself with her body becoming rounder but still feeds more than an entire Orphanage. Initially, a very attractive young lady but now looks like an Old sorcerer. It is a sin for Baker to be a clergy and at the same time a gambler lavishing in style and losing without remorse Hell will let loose if his sponsor is the Church's finance. Regardless of his anointing, he's still not beyond the people's wrath. It is a sin for Dawson to drive through many open legs as he jumps from skirt to skirt and acquainting himself with all forms of underwear, playing the bad guy who never gets caught. It is a sin to stay idle and observe them wrongly drawing conclusions from every action without minding their motives or reasons analyzing closely even while sitting from afar giving no consideration to the human Nature which exists in imperfection and faint stains. It is a sin castigating the weaknesses of others while overlooking mine thereby condemning the crimes I do not commit which does not make me better either. As much as they do not know where I faulter Judging them makes me worst than a sinner.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Accepting Pain.

She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....

maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....

“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.


She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....

“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”

And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....

I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...


“Your angst belongs in a museum.”



I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.


“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....


“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”





Details | Prose Poetry |

Rain Contemplation

The grayness, the rain tapping all around tapping, gently, the repetition of the rain
the grayness, all the same, the tapping. A zen monk would smile as he washed
the pots and pans, amidst the grayness  the gentle tapping. He would pat the dog 
lying sleepy and dry on the ground. He would meditate and breathe in
the cool moist clean air. And he would smile again.  The american in me feels 
 restless and empty.  Unable to pull up the boundless youthful energy I no longer
have and dash out into this day of rain overflowing with ideas and hopes 
fearless. Change meant moving forward, upward, onward. The energy 
boundless joy, the accomplishments to obtain   accomplish   form   produce  create.
Just as a simple zen monk, smiling as the kitchen gardens are nourished by the
tapping rains, I need to feel at home in a small world again. We all do I think.
The earth, she might survive then, replies the tapping rain.  
She needs to rest   the body   the pain  the breath 
She needs to rest.  
We might all survive then repeats the tapping rain.
And I need to rest, the pain pleads with me to accept rest.
If we all could accept this something less, undefined emptiness 
The earth, she might manage to survive then.


Details | Prose Poetry |

LOST SOULS MEET AGAIN

The spring is coming in a slow pace,
But I can sense something in the air,
Something coming out of nowhere,

I stood in front of the elevator on the third
floor in a nice old hotel,
Going to a small diner with friends,
Some nice food and wine to fill my soul with
love,

The door opened, and I saw a man inside,
Thinking how I must have lost my mind, after
so many years, it can’t be You,

And I stood frozen, and You stood frozen,
Until the grey metal doors closed and brought
me back from the Universe of lost souls,

I run downstairs to stop you leave,
Seeing unfamiliar faces, seeking for you - my
ghost from the past,
While You pushed the elevator button many
times, screaming loudly: go up, third floor,
now, go, move… Is it her, or I’m loosing my
mind?

And the doors opened, but nobody was there,
You couldn't find me- your lost love, your
ghost from the Universe of lost souls.

I screamed, You screamed,
We screamed in an erupting pain so the whole
Universe can hear us,
Could it be that we lost each other again?

I took the stairs and went up,
I could feel how our pain reunites,
I could feel that a lost soul is shouting three
floors above,

And I saw You on your knees staring in the
elevator doors,
And You felt my presence coming from
behind,
You felt my steps getting closer,
And You stood up,
Seeing tears coming from my eyes,
While I touched yours going through your
face,

We didn't say a word,
But our minds were talking,
We didn't say a word,
But our eyes were walking us through our
history together,

We didn't say a word,
But our hands....
Our hands united,
Our souls united breaking these cold hotel
walls,
Breaking the ice around our harts,
Breaking the past,
Amusing the whole Universe of lost souls!


Details | Prose Poetry |

DAMAGED MY TRUE LOVE

written 17th Sept 2013



When it comes to love, I AM poisonous
 don't let me curse another, leave me loveless

For the first time in my life, I felt your pain and cried for your heart
 my heart finally hurts, knowing I passed this pain from the start

Please find help to set your heart free
 trust me, it's not a life you recover from easily 

Damaged goods I told you, unrepairable
 but some how, you managed the impossible

Unlovable for my entire life
 yet you had no problem, getting me to become your wife

Yes, it's been more than both of us should have ever had to bear
 at this moment, every cell in my body is overwhelmed, so I really do care

Please don't enter my life's pain and despair  
 you don't deserve it, you are so patient and filled with such love

I'm sorry I let myself fall in love knowing it would poison you
 soul mates forever and eternity, my love belongs only to you...




Details | Prose Poetry |

Forever I am You

You believe me to be an altruistic man as I smile with sneering reluctance. 
You may think me gentle as I extend my hand in goodwill, but degraded am I as I wistfully watch my hand recoil from your filthy phalanges with its foul clutch. 
You wave me off poised as I stand here in this field laden with perennial flowers as they stir aloft, but unbeknownst to you I berate you as you retreat afoot and go forth from my company into the night. 
You deliver beautiful words in my image unto your friends, but I carry your name with seething indiscretion into the fire.
You entitle me as a "friend", but I explicitly fornicate your secrets as I spitefully scathe and scoff unto you.
You divulge your mysteries but I deprecate them and take exception to your standing as I plunge you within rueful nether worlds foreboding in treachery and wretchedness...
Why? For I have no pride unto you.
You place your life you into my palm and recite proverbs appealing for my heart unto yours, but guileful am I and in wicked glee do I carry unto the grave your beauty with its secrets. 
You inscribe me as a "fiancée" into forever without recognising the falsifier whose witness bears mistaken. 
You smile as your recite dreams aforementioned in times bygone, but I chastise you, and your children do I condemn into hell for their fondling fledgling and fornicated perversions.  

You call me a "friend", but I am forever you


Details | Prose Poetry |

Forgotten Clothes and Stolen Whiskey

She left me cold, like a forgotten sweater.

Walked right out the door, without even checking the weather.

Now I’m crumpled up by the fireplace, frayed by the rough

edges of ashen bricks that smell of burnt flowers and sun tan lotion:

That stuff she always seemed to smell like, even in the harsh depths of winter. 

But coconut oil and rose petals aren’t enough to regulate body temperature;

So, I guess it was the whiskey that kept her flush that night,

because in the heart pocket of my jacket that she stole  

was a flask of absolution.

Each block she rounded, she doused her frigid organs with

another shot to warm the notion of shattering the path we built.

Fueling a new engine, to carry her blur past the life we once thought

was forged by two souls meant to keep each other warm.

But now this existence is kindled by abandoned perrineals 

and bloodshot revelation. 

I watch fire kissed petals curl up into themselves and gasp

for love’s last embrace until there’s nothing left for the 

fire to feed upon. 

It’s 3 A.M. 

The smoke is beginning to dissipate;

her throat is dry, her legs are tired. 

…We’re both so tired. 

I pull her sweater from the bricks,

feel the wool tear and clench my ribs. 

Gasp. 

I fold her warmth gently as if tending

to a wounded animal and tuck it

beneath my skull; hoping for dreams 

of summer nights, but sleep won’t come.

It left with her. 

She has reached her apartment.

Staggering toward the door, 

she thrusts shaking hands into

my jacket in search of keys.

The flask falls onto the concrete,

the last drops spill out. 

There is nothing left.

The door opens, and she falls to the bed,

cold in the leather too uncomfortable to return. 

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry |

Courage is required and also pain to become a hero

I begin to rediscover love.
May it be true and
Reciprocal in order to feel
true love, the sun of happiness.
  
  I am enamored of her.
What shall be my next move
to take her castle? And hence,
we view each other from
Each other's towers, from
which I descend to assail
The barriers blocking me from her.

Courage is required and also pain to become a hero.


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Hopeless

Every night she paints the sky a little darker,
blotting out stars that she’s given up on.
Burning balls of dust that her imagination can
no longer shoulder. Someone else can have
their light; Someone with a little hope left.
She’d rather draw in grey scale memories,
outline them in crimson. It’s a little more 
realistic that way; contemporary at least.
The few last glowing bits in the horizon
give all that is needed for the final strokes
of her legacy. 
A promise to herself,
                               A tribute to the fallen,
                                   A gift for those who are sure wander onto the    
                                    path that she found, so long ago.
 
"Maybe it will save them.
                                     Give them what they need to find their way.”
 
She lay her brush unto the stone before her,
and let the grass take the blood from her hands
before she reaches out.
One final star shines in her eyes,
the only one left to guide them home.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved


Details | Prose Poetry |

To Walk In The Rain

To Walk In the Rain
As the cold rain blew, I kept walking for miles with my little  dogs walking with me.  We were 
a little family and so we were in this healing thing together.  We had to walk as a family 
together.  Besides, don’t dogs like to walk?

I carried a big umbrella holding it over them.  The rain gently washed the tears from my face 
and masked my face as I cried.  I sobbed and sobbed as I walked.  Often pleading to God to 
end my pain or begging him to strike me dead with lightening.

As the thunder roared and my spirits soared, I could yell
with hostile anger as loud as I wished to yell.  Hours of
walking in the rain is the only thing that eased my pain.


My dogs must have thought that I had gone insane.  For months at night all we did was walk 
in the rain.  Only when spring came and the birds chirped at us did the sun dry away all of 
my tears.

Every night we still walked but not as many miles as before, until we were soaked.  I walked 
so much that I wore the soles out of my tennis shoes.  But it was all I could do to medicate 
my pain and sooth my broken heart way, to walk in the rain.

Thank goodness for the cleansing rain.  It healed me that year.


12345