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Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

absence abuse
addiction adventure
africa age
allah allegory
allusion america
analogy angel
anger angst
animal anniversary
anti bullying anxiety
appreciation april
arabic art
assonance august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child childhood
children chocolate
christian christmas
cinderella city
class clothes
color community
computer conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad dance
dark daughter
day death
death of a friend december
dedication deep
depression desire
destiny devotion
discrimination divorce
dog dream
drink earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion father
father daughter fathers day
fear february
feelings film
fire firework
first love fish
fishing flower
flying food
football for children
for her for him
for kids forgiveness
freedom friend
friendship fruit
fun funeral
funny funny love
future games
garden gender
giggle girl
girlfriend giving
god golf
good morning good night
goodbye gothic
graduate graduation
grandchild granddaughter
grandfather grandmother
grandparents grandson
grave green
grief growing up
growth guitar
hair halloween
happiness happy
happy birthday hate
health heart
heartbreak heartbroken
heaven hello
hero high school
hilarious hindi
hip hop history
hockey holiday
holocaust home
homework hope
horror horse
house how i feel
howl humanity
humor humorous
hurt husband
hyperbole i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
innocence insect
inspiration inspirational
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
memorial day memory
men mentor
metaphor middle school
military miracle
mirror miss you
missing missing you
mom money
moon morning
mother mother daughter
mothers day mountains
moving on murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new york nice
niece night
nonsense nostalgia
november nursery rhyme
obituary ocean
october old
onomatopoeia pain
paradise parents
paris parody
pashto passion
patriotic peace
people pets
philosophy places
poems poetess
poetry poets
political pollution
poverty power
prayer preschool
pride princess
prison psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember repetition
retirement rights
river romance
romantic rose
rude sad
sad love satire
scary school
science science fiction
sea seasons
self senses
sensual september
sexy sick
silence silly
silver simile
simple sin
sister sky
slam slavery
sleep smart
smile snow
soccer social
society softball
soldier solitude
sometimes son
song sorrow
sorry soulmate
sound space
spanish spiritual
spoken word sports
spring star
stars storm
strength stress
student success
suicide summer
sun sunset
sunshine sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
technology teen
teenage thank you
thanks thanksgiving
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute trust
truth uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
write writing
yellow youth

Long Career Poems | Long Career Poetry

Long Career Poems. Below are the most popular long Career by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Career poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Carol Eastman | Details |

The Job Interview

The HR person called me in… I was turning gray… Was he even twenty-one?
I wondered if the interview would go well, as he did fung shui the chairs around.
Offered a caramel expresso mocha late decaf, I told him I took my coffee black.
Alas my friend, it got progressively worse, this: our proverbial generational gap.

He asked me to explain, how I’d be the best personnel fit, for this illustrious job.
Ah! Experience I had in abounds, as I pulled out a 100-page resume, neatly bound.
That question, had me off and running, but I knew, I was in some trouble when…
I saw his eyes glaze over, and he ask me, ‘Have we made it into space yet?’

He smirked, when he ask, about ‘Recent’ applicable education, in the last 5 years.
I condensed my course certifications till he nearly fell off, his crazy chair, my dear!
He ask the projects worked on, unfortunately, all were government secret classified. 
So I added some of the numerous skills, that had been applied, till he almost cried.

I started with the job descriptions, but he didn’t like… that the names were so long.
And the abbreviations normally used, in this line of work, almost blew his mind.
Though I also got the feeling, he may have thought that I’d finally, lost mine, since…
My accomplishments had scads of stuff he’d never, ever, be able to comprehend...

You know, ‘things’ about the job, HR doesn’t care about or bother to be clued in.
Luckily all was saved, before the interviewers’ jaw, hit the floor around his chair.
Using a power point presentation, illustrations appeared, giving him a better clue.
I even gave him a burned DVD, set to the music of  ‘Live Free or Die Hard’, too.

He ask about items, he’d never heard of, you know, from way before he was born.
But got the feeling he’d be more attentive, talking about a computer game going on.
I didn’t lie about a thing, it’s not my fault some Companies are now closed down!
But I felt things were somewhat a success, as security finally came to lead me out…

Unfortunately, in the end, they hired a young one, and I couldn’t understand why.
He was a quiet, little, studious kid, who didn’t say a thing, but had stars in his eyes.
He didn’t understand any of the work involved, but his pay would be next to none.
But that's whom they got: until that company closed for work that couldn’t be done.

All because the HR Department didn't help them get the workers they did need.
I became self-employed, developing computer games, all the rage! Oh So Sweet!
Yes, I became a millionaire, with my own company, without HR, anywhere seen!
Now, we develop rockets to go into space, where I felt, that HR person should be.

Dedicated to all those Middle aged people stressed out after looking for a job.
Wife and Hubby Collaboration

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Long poem by Peter Duggan | Details |

Be careful what you wish for

Now here is the story of a restless young man
Who dreamed of fighting in South Vietnam.
He’d learned about war in the comics he’d read
And he knew in his heart that for this he’d been bred.
As soon as it came up, the lads eighteenth year
He went off to enlist for an army career.

He saw some old major and he sat for some tests
Then the  shrink and the doctor saw him with the rest
Of those gallant young fellows that wanted to fight
And give to their country the force of their might.
When all this was over it was late in the day
So feeling elated he for home made his way.

About two weeks later a letter arrived
And reading it’s message his spirits raised high.
For he’d been accepted a soldier he’d be
And the feel of the message did fill him with glee.
He had to front up in a couple of days
And then for Kapooka he’d be on his way.

Ten weeks in Kapooka it taught him a lot
He learned to make war and leave bodies to rot.
He was taugh how all commies just murdered and lied
And that he and his country had God on their side.
And that no sacrifice could be too great to make
And it’s an honour to die for a great country’s sake.

His training all over he joined a Platoon
He’d made Infanteer he’d be fighting soon.
It was off to corp training to learn even more
About all of the goodies that go with a war.
He kept seeing his image all tough, mean and strong
For he was a fighter and this was his song.

It was just eight months later that his posting came through
He was off to the jungles, his dream had come true.
Well his plane soon arrived at that sad Nui Dat
Where he first heard the guns as their missiles they spat.
He was fearful at first but he soon became calm
These guns were on his side they’d do him no harm

A month or two later he’s out on patrol
As tail end Charley He’s playing the role
They were deep in the scrub with peace all around
 Then the air came alive with this terrible sound.
He felt himself falling “Lord is this a dream”
He asked as he heard he his God awful scream.

He lay there not hurting but sensing the worst
As he felt all around where his stomach had burst.
Where once it was firm gaped a warn sticky hole
It seemed that again war had taken it’s toll.
It seemed like a nightmare, a terrible dream
As the medic assured him that it weren’t like it seemed.

He sensed the black silence and quickened with fear
For man stands alone when his end it be clear. 
Then something within him gave way to great peace
As his wisdom did whisper that all things must cease.
Then the great mother came, took him gently away
From that place of man’s anger where a body did lay.

A true story of a friend of mine who died in Vietnam written in 1975....Peter

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Long poem by Katie Pukash | Details |


They call me hairdresser, hairstylist, barber,
but really I am just a therapist with shears in my hands and the ability to cut memories out of peoples orbits.

Donna says she has twenty seven great-grandchildren,
twelve grandchildren,
and six kids.
She tells me that her late husband died,
and that if I cut her hair too short she will wring my neck. 
She calls me superhero.

Dustie tells me about her child passing,
that the autopsy couldn’t tell why,
just a selfish god wanted her precious to be with him instead of her.  
I don’t cry. 
I try not to fill the shampoo suds with salt tears.
I try not to use the tape in my pocket to keep me together,
but sometimes I need it when I bite the bitter from my fingernails.
The cut hair sticks to my leggings-
their stories itching away at me. 

I try not to cradle their shortcomings in my cereal spoon,
try not to feel guilty if my advice doesn’t take,
try not to kill the blue jays,
or miss the sunrise.
I try not to forget their names,
or their fingers,
but I will never forget their stories. 

Cut me like an a-line
because I am asymmetrical to their words.
Listening but forgetting.
Sweeping up the hair and moving on,
always snip, sweep, snip, sweep,
dust off my shoulders and I’m back up again.

Glass house salon chair,
I hold their hair at a ninety degree angle.
They sink in the seat
always looking back at me.
180 degree angle, modified ninety,
texture with razor but don’t cut off the length of their stories.
Remember their fingers.
Remember their formulas for changing.
Remember their eye color and the size of their pupils,
the way they look when they talk to you.
Remember to take notes like Marilee’s hair is resistant and takes a longer time to process.
Remember the process,
the hilite weave,
the caramels, golds, coppers, blondes. 
Remember their voices,
the stable and shaky and cracked and firm.
Remember to snip, sweep, snip, sweep,
dust off your shoulders and get back up again.

I’ve got to sit up straight,
grip the watermelons,
eat the pepper seeds,
tame the lions.
I have to crawl when the soles of my feet are covered in sorrows
And my knees harbor hopes for holding me up,
joining my joints together,
connecting me from floor to foot, to stomach, to lung, to heart, to heart, to dust off your shoulders and get back up again.

Donna comes in again, for a perm this time. 
She walks slowly to the salon chair.
My stomach is hollow.
I weep into my lungs.
As I begin to put on my suit she looks up at me
and smiles
and says, “Hello, Superhero.”

Copyright © Katie Pukash

Long poem by Amit Ray | Details |

A Mulatto

Otto`s life is not
their British
sickular motto
Grue is his banner
left by his
blue-eyed Brit mom
left long by one of
those hated South
African Paki
His guilty pleasures
in Green Street have
no recognition like
many such Aussies in
mulberry bushes
Yet he shovels the
stake of hatred and
As if sheer pain as
tears digged large
holes in

A pineapple in
search of an apple
lurking in the dark
reality of snark and
A noir youth
shadowed ,embroiled
and embezzled
So is his life-an
aisle of
Identity crisis
hackneyed into codes
for statistics
they call secularism

His way melds
through smog hogs he
hoggard for heydays
eats grief, drinks
Flowers though bloom
on his washed soil
Seasonal affluenza
and again bailiffs
and treasons
Anacronym to London
Bailey courts
No star and no moon
and no jack in the
trade that allured
From marijuana to
cocaine he manscaped
to Spain

Years unheard he
found at last his
Jubilations in
living with his
Andalusian mare in
the city of angels
People who
undermined him once
are now just
mere dissidents of
an earlier
Adamant and
spanglish he
continues his
from cartrels in
Cuba to brothels in
to escorts in
Dominican his blood
strengthened in the
verizon of Panama

Enter the new duel
from drugs to
bodacious babes
Gringa melones
versus latina
though he remained
dormant in all those
Gasohol stealing
expensive Davidsons
and long drive for
prime contacts
his frarority
Though warned and
caught and
handcuffed and
jailed and derailed
a few times from Sao
Paolo to San Antonio
Unfazed a prophetic
man for some
eveready treasures
he found new breasts
to grab somebody -a
kosher barbarian
Rhabarberbarbara is
his broken glass
Women are always
pleasure,sort of
The Interpol
announced him in
Moscow after a trail
of long bellowing
Mistaken and misled 

Beyond every
speculations and
explorations he
Chillax mood in
Russian vodka and
Austrian redbull and
background Swedish
mafia beats
A highwayman is he
now way away his
breath from their
In New York he bonks
in those  trader`s
Brunch with Japan
and now a doting
father of two
Beyond every hatred
what started a
movement in
Christianity in
He celebrates
Thanksgivukkah and a
regular blogger in

Copyright © Amit Ray

Long poem by Sheri Fresonke Harper | Details |

Mastering My Life

The day was short and I was tall,
oops, got that backwards after my fall,
for I was mixed up and worried,  befuddled I say
on this brand new morning in the month of May.
I set out like a flash and look what I saw
not much as you may point and guffaw
as without my glasses I followed my assets
like a dog with a tail but with far less facets--
my nose may quiver but I sniff far less
the reason I’m off as you might obsess
is the cleanliness rule is so often boohoo
so boring and dreary, I’m afraid someone may sue
me for the dust in the corners or tiny feet
who confront me and scurry as fleet as may skeet.
Ah, there they are, hanging around my neck!
Glasses sure make the world look like heck.
You see it and flee it as bold as one may
for look, it’s quite beautiful and sunny this day.
So I quaff one diet coke and with nerves prepared
I step out to take battle on the weeds I shared
for weeks on end with the neighborhood slough.
One must give back with fulsome ado dues.
Don’t you agree? I always agree it saves need to flee!
Why do you nod and sneeze like a bee?
Ah, the weeds, yes, let me clamber down there
And pull out tufts and Beware! The dirt I must share!
How does one deal with a face full of dirt,
why wipe it and the sweat on my new clean shirt.
Why not? It shows you’re living to the limit of full
and one certainly can quit when the cull is at lull.
Yes, a bucket is enough to start this week
because groan, my knees feel done in and weak.
So I shall water the flower beds sometime
after I watch the clouds float and unwind...
Did I pay the bills? Oh, yes indeed, I think yes.
Help me out, dear, don’t let me guess.
Okay, okay, here’s the hoe, I go check...
Yawn, wow, I did too much, I must hit the deck
rest in my easy chair and button my games
turning my head I fall asleep without blame.
Until I wake with a sputter and the phone cranky
making noise so much it must be hanky panky
And so after I groan, moan, and drink another diet coke
I set down to work on whatever I remember of the bloke
who once taught me about the drinking arcade
with buzzers and blowers and hints of life with no aid
and tell his tale with not much ado or PU
because keyboard tapping is easier than the loo,
or the weeds or the awake or the find of glasses.
Yes, I suggest, give me honor of many masses
to help with my head now lonesome for pills--
I will be finishing up by making a new will.

Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper

Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |


Introduction please:
Through the eyes of a Spiritual Healer, sees Oblivion Dark Sunshine. Visionary to her purpose, her life dances. She is in search of the ultimate right; nom de plume is her name. Her favorite flower is daffodil that blows in the wind. Effortlessly she speaks without a written cue. She is a poet and philosopher of the truth. When prompted, she leaves in confidence that she can provide you with the needed assistance you requested. Never a task will she take that she cannot complete. She is integrity and your virtual reality. In the mind of her people, she is heard. Candor is her way of administration. Her outspokenness is loved by all that know her. However, her honesty can hurt. Therefore, she guards her words to be more professional. Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said. Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well. We enjoy her through social media. Her books should be all shelves. A Life Poet and Philosopher A BLOCKBUSTER Her Psalmist thumb is a gift from God. She shares this with the world through a poetic verse. She liberates herself from any form of poverty. She delineates a world that is free. Naturally, she writes about anything. Oblivion is the sunshine to those that life vents darkness. Strenuously, are her themes; insofar, topics with universal meanings. She provides dogma, philosophy of meaning and truths, to communities and neighborhoods . With candor, she speaks outspokenly to withstand negativity. Prolific to the cause, her name will be recognized systemically. She thrives on esteem, truth, and self-worth. Copiously, she strives to be heard. Social media is her teeming vehicle. Oblivion Dark Sunshine is a versifier, rhymester, bard, well written and there is more not said. Her wordsmith is published and this is all known well. We enjoy her through public mediums. Her books are poetic instruments. Blockbuster Life Poet and Philosopher Oblivion Dark Sunshine Poetry Diva
Verlena S. Walker UPDATED SEPTEMBER 15, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker

Long poem by Jerry Troiano | Details |

What Our Eyes Have Seen

With virgin vision, we witnessed the beginnings,
Of what was to be our life within a life.
A landscape of human suffering and crime,
That extended too many a horizon.

However, the optic nerve is just a nerve that we cannot control.
It allows the day-to-day to attack the brain,
Bombarding a once clear view of the world, with the sights, sounds, and emotions of life, That are etched in our memory for all times.

A fatal crash that claims a child,
The same age as the child that waits at home.
Or burns on another child's arms from cigarettes,
The efforts of an abusive father.

The elderly women who watches worriedly, 
As mouth-to-mouth is given, in vain, to her life’s love,
Or the housewife who greets you at the door,
Knowing, without a word being spoken, that your message is of death.

To see a family standing in the snow, robes pulled tight to their necks,
As their home goes up in flames on a Christmas morning.
Or, the look on a homeless man’s face when he notices you,
And he returns the bits of food to the dumpster, lowers his head, and walks away.

The anger and hate of a couple towards each other, which leaves their child crying in a corner, 
As, what remains of love watches from frames on a wall at its own inescapable demise.
Or the old man held for shoplifting a can of dog food, not for a pet, but for himself,
Who you then give twenty dollars, and talk the store owner out of the arrest.

The scope of these visions know no boundaries, The rich, the poor, the good, and the bad, make up this mosaic,
With each episode wearing away at the fiber of your being,
Testing your strength and resolve as few are tested.

You search for ways to relieve the pressure these images induce.
Alcohol numbs the nerve for a while, but it is not the answer, if there is an answer.
But still you search for that something to restore your once clear vision,
Knowing that you can never get it back, that too much has changed.

But, “Were this world and endless pain, 
And by sailing eastward we could forever reach new distances,
And discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades of Island of King Solomon,
Then there were promise in the voyage.”  (Melville 1819 – 1891), Moby Dick

Copyright © Jerry Troiano

Long poem by ANTHONY BLAKE | Details |


It all started when I took a typing test
I did 95 words per minute and made two errors
The requirement was 50 or more words
Human Resources was impressed and set up the Department interview
It was my history in becoming 33 years ago
This is my personal streaming flow
Now let’s start the show
The date was June 21, 1982
The name of R.H. MACY & CO., INC., but consumers know the company as “MACY’S”
My venture beginning on the 14th Floor at FLAGSHIP HERALD SQUARE TOWER
My schedule was 9:30 AM to 6:00 PM of my precise hour
The task was Telecommunications under the title of TELEX OPERATOR
I was communicating all around Macy’s and the Globe
There is much more in suppose
Later the Department was changed to a Document & Financial Word Processing Center
I was typing Documents & Financial detail as a Lead Operator
Now I must move fast forward
But I must move onward
I worked in numerous departments such as Financial Planning/Budgets, Legal Office,
Administration, Executive Office’s and much more
Well I actually lived the actual event of the days of MACY’S AND GIMBELS era
There was competition between the two companies
Rivalry was also accompanied
Because of a Macy’s Buyer and a Gimbel’s Buyer would often have lunch and discuss what both companies were doing
We were sent an email from our former Macy’s CEO that we are not to talk to Gimbel’s about Macy’s Business
1985, I communicated as a Telex Operator with NBC-TV of the MACY’S THANKSGIVIING
I have been exposed to two mergers first being FEDERATED DEPARTMENT STORES, INC. AND 
Later with MAY COMPANY
Since those 33 years, FEDERATED DEPARTMENT STORES, INC. changed their name to MACY’S, INC.
But the funny part about that is, Federated often said they don’t want to see anything with the Macy’s name on it, but being Macy’s had the name is what brought Federated Fame
Because of the change, my future will be a rearrange
Four years from now, I plan to retire
There’s my year’s of full tenure employ
Eyes on retirement will be my joy.


Long poem by Tshego Khumalo | Details |

New City - Get Ready

Mama I want to be a star
I want to grace stages that host the world's revered faces
Fantasies shameless my pipe dreams contagious 
I want to be famous

Not one for fictional frivolity
I speak of what's in front of me
A new city called Poetry, 
I watched as the has-beens soaked their dreams in sewage streams
Unphased by rodent plagues 
These ones embrace their own rat race
I still try to navigate the avenues
Negotiate the ones and twos and find a way to tell the truth 

Young and unstable I stumble in the giant footprints of those who stood before me
Tip toe  on verbal terrain as desperately I pray the weight of immaturity won't bury me, 
Admittedly this spoken world is new to me 


Is it possible in any way the gift of verse will carry me? 
I see me breaking grounds, earth shattering and in my dreams these words resound
I'll turn cacophony into somewhat of a sacred sound
I want to craft phrases that serenade, deliver sweet-somethings that emancipate
I want, in some way to bring meaning to confusion 
Dear world of poetry
Sometimes when they're floored I'm in awe of how my flow's flawless, I  hear applause no pauses, waving arms and stinging palms bear tribute to those timeless charms, classic tales still bent with intent to succumb to new pens

Pave way for insecurity
For fear of gift escaping me
See I fail to write when I'm  trying to
I get it right with no intention to
Am I...within my right to claim potential true?
Tear ink off her hinges, her blue ball point cringes
Left hand in debt
My blank page bereft

But in the back of my mind
I see standing ovations and soul drenched invasions..
I want to pierce every being I encounter, 
I want to penetrate faith, tear doubt asunder,
Let me to speak to the  valleys
negotiate peaks and make friends with epitome
I want to part oceans and in the grips of my  - pause   -   tempt emotions,

mold momentum to set in motion the wheels of adoption so that poetry.....may adapt herself for me  

I want to write poetry, I want to speak 
I want to reach within,
 pen something...
 A remote reflection of her 
This...this brand new city
I present this piece as fantasy
 when in all reality
I do hope she's  prepared for me

Copyright © Tshego Khumalo

Long poem by Mackenzie Brooke | Details |


Dreams fade,
Minds trade.
Little late,
I'm awake.

See faith,
More mace.
Can't you see,
That I can't bleed?

Why don't you listen for a minute?
Even if I have a little fit.
Why don't you listen for a minute?
Come on listen you little shit.

My dreams died,
When they got fried.
My mind was traded,
Because I was the one hated.
Even though I was a little late,
Couldn't you see I'm awake?
And if only dreams came true,
I would have you.
But since my dreams are under a shoe,
I am blue.

Take me for consideration.
I have done a lot to earn that blessin'.
Take me for consideration.
Please break the tradition.

I can't see anymore.
Every time I sleep, I hit the floor.
I can't feel the real anymore.
Only the sadness consumes me though.

Why don't you listen for a minute?
Even if I have a little fit.
Why don't you listen for a minute?
Come on listen you little shit.

My dreams died,
When they got fried.
My mind was traded,
Because I was the one hated.
Even though I was a little late,
Couldn't you see I'm awake?
And if only dreams came true,
I would have you.
But since my dreams are under a shoe,
I am blue.

All the hard work,
All the sick faces,
All the late nights,
All the covered traces.

All the ripped jeans,
All the skipped truances,
All the scorning thieves,
My dreams are in ruins.

Hey, (hey)
Why don't you listen for a minute? (listen for a minute)
Even if I have a little fit. (I have little fits)
Why don't you listen for a minute? (listen for a minute)
Come on listen you little shit. (you are full of shit)

Hey, (hey)
Why don't you listen for a minute? (listen for a minute)
Even if I have a little fit. (I have little fits)
Why don't you listen for a minute? (listen for a minute)
Come on listen you little shit. (you are full of shit)

Bitch please.

My dreams died, (they were fried)
My mind was traded, (I was the one they hated)
Even though I was a little late, (I am still awake)
And if only dreams came true, (I am still awake)
I would have you. (I am still awake)
But since my dreams are under a shoe, (I am still awake)
I am blue. (You're a little fake)

Copyright © Mackenzie Brooke

Long Poems