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Long Fantasy Poems | Long Fantasy Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by William J. Jr. Atfield | Details |

My Daughter The Need A walk from the dark side, into the darkness

My Daughter

My beautiful Daughter, walks life’s paths alone,
She does so, by design – not of hers – on her own.
She travels heavily !, from place to empty space,
from space to vacant place – in what kind of race?
A race towards where ?, towards what I do not know,
for, to me – an  age and place beyond – she does not show
where it is, - where she wants her future  to go
if ?, going anywhere – accomplishing - is a guiding
force in her life, seeking out, chasing after lightening.

There are times, when I hear, in my words
the sounds of need, – empty in their experience –
looking for some of what has been offered.
What has been offered, I see, it is not meant for me.

The Need

I keep being dragged back into this nightmare,
a nightmare ?, so I am lead to believe, could it be ?
Within the stories, the tone, I hear, I perceive it to be
but have to wonder ?, is it ?, really but a dream
that can find no reality on this plane , never comes true,
therefore it truly is !, becomes the nightmare.
In the words that tell, I see, I hear, I feel
the sword that plunges deep, with which to defend,
to destroy the foe – the lover – a man not to know
yet not forgotten, not left alone, not let go of.
He - the nightmare – is always there, he doesn’t care,
he is a rotting residue in, a part of life’s moments.
He is your nightmare, in your dreams, in every waking hour!
These sad eyes see, these sensitive ears, in pain, hear the pain,
this old heart feels, but this useless blade, – a knife that hides
within my, closed mouth – seems not able to cut away at the ties
that bind you to life’s strife – to the nightmare.
Could it be unfulfilled desires ?, unrealized dreams ?

What has taken forty nine life times to create,
might be attributed to nature, nurturing or fate,
but may not be digested, accepted, understood or dissipated.
Regardless of the words, the meaning, what else can be stated ?
I know that in forty nine hour days, my thoughts my feeling
will never find a way to reach out and touch a solid ceiling
and so, in my many words, in my actions, I pray
that it all can be set aside, and all can be put away.

A walk from the dark side, into the darkness.

Little, to nothing could this impotent old man / dad offer
his Child, his oldest Daughter, in so much need.
Nothing could he bestow upon his Child, or his lover,
with her insecurities, doubts, his insatiable greed,
and so, escape not, she walks along with his need
as it has been something he has decreed.
Oh !, how remiss to leave them on their own, to agree
to their coarse, a course that could take them on
to complete the journey they started, then gone.

Time, enough !, distance is past 
Time to stop !, turn around at last
and face what the outcome will be.
Open eyes, a new beginning to see.
May I leave sun set’s path, face the sun rise
coming through that black velvet screen before me
with it’s spattered, day-glow dots, all aglow
opening inner sanctum doors, allowing me to know.

Thoughts for me, alternative for them flash before my mind.
What will they do ?, am I being so unkind ?
Will one, the other or both be bussed back to Ontario ?
As I walk back to the room, I ponder the scenario ? 
Will we ( all three ) carry on with our little adventure
into the canyons and gorges, the city of all nights lights
– the city where angels never sleeps – I cannot be sure ?,
sure if they will end their – for my attention – fights.
Will we see the city ?, where one man built his fantasy,
walk among dreams brought to life, a fun reality 
of cartoon characters, animated for the child in us
or in the end, to Ontario on a Greyhound bus ?
Will we see stars ?, stars on a walk, in the city of angels
At this juncture, what will be the story one tells ?
Will the Golden Gate carry us ?, will we ride the hills ?,
on their steel rails, tell tales of all our thrills ? 
Will we end these moments in gods country ?, 
the city of the British, the salmon run, a hollow tree,
mountains, bays, bears, a Princess, poetess gone to ash,
her rhyme, this forth cousin of mine, they did stash,
hidden from obvious view, in the woods of Stanley park,
where few knew, and for a hundred years, lay in the dark.
Many know not where Native, folk lore doth reside ?
In her books, hand in hand and side by side,
along with as many nationalities as there are nations.
In this place, women brought to life her creations.

Before I leave this bleak walk, in the arms of this black night,
My thoughts are, hope that all will come out all right,
when one of those day glow dots, in that black velvet sky,
all a glow, took off, streaked south, caught my eye
as it crossed the heavens, fast as the speed of light,
in the pattern of a Zed, then disappeared from sight.

( Strange !!!, this speck of star light, it’s unusual flight
as it star-ts out from nothing, speeds south on a 
horizontal plane, pauses a split second, reverses direction,
drops down vertically, on an angle northward, towards a point
where it started out, again paused for a split second, then, 
on a horizontal plan, zipped south before disappearing into star,
in the starry back drop from whence it took life, for a moment. )

This story, – twenty five years old – in rhyme, comes to life,
for a brief moment, from a memories hoard, rife
with so many stories hidden from sight 
coming from rhyme - into light.

B. J.“A ” 2
May 30th 2002


Long poem by Debbie Guzzi | Details |

Corpus delicti

Close your ears, close your eyes and pray to me for, as close as this, you may never get to God. What immortals have you hoped to see? What espirit de corp have you longed for? Who will guide your earthly plod? Kiss me for I have kissed the lips of Lestat, nipped and pricked, punctured and sucked to husks, occasionally with regret, but more often lust's ascot what once was I, reveling in your taste, your musk. As Louis, I beguile with tawdry tales surreal visages of plantation nights, horror of the color green, Letiche roaming creatures who our trails conceal, the true demons whose glamour goes unseen. Yes, I prayed for death, wrapped in the pain of lost kin but, by God I never wished, I never wished for Him. 2 But, by God, I never wished, I never wished for Him. Eternity alone is such a hollow thing, unripe, never, ever, feeling full, a marrow-less bone, scrim- shaw's sorry surface, a sperm-less whale to pipe. Such as this was He, when him came to me that mid- night, pleading, bleeding, ever feeding morbid life. A cameo on cowry shell, with skin which bid the touch of cheek on cheek to assuage my grief to fill the brother-less gap the lack of wife. This is how he lured me to the kill, the blood spilled how fire and innocence flamed when he arrived. Do not hate me for the fate his kiss instilled Surely, a family is the normal thing to long for alive or dead to long for an espirit de corp. 3 Alive or dead to long for an espirit de corp crestfallen at the lack of hearth and home, pride we hidden monsters kill what we adore, and more ... leaving us in marble crypts with no warmth inside. Then He saw her, the child beside the corpse of mother half dead, the pox upon her face, amidst the tears certainly to save her was His goal, what other? But now I think her savior - a most foul affair. Claudia, the child eternal, bidding, unformed blight, monster among monsters, her wee wicked formed unbudded curdled, curling ever inward, a trickster charming night stalker, dragging porcelain dollies by her side. Daughter mine? Temptress, maker-killer, unformed bride have you killed your father, dumped him in a swampy hide? 4 Have you killed your father, dumped Him in a swampy hide? Years you've planned and plotted, Lestat to defy and I absorbed in misspent fantasy with you; my fate allied. Damned one, poisoner, death angel, do you deny the desecration of the His unmoving vessel, fed to the fishes, the bottom feeders, oh but He made do ... absorbed recaste, laid in wait each hungry cell. We fled the patricide, you and I sought others of our kind. What gruesome, ill bred misfits the world held and so hardening the unbeating heart ... beloved to mankind we returned as if compelled. To the core of life and lore to Paree, to the bloody stage the Theatre des Vampires is home. Mockery's the rage. 5 The Theatre des Vampires is home. Mockery's the rage. Do you see them now? Four hundred years and Armand has not changed. See them lure the human meat upstage with laughter. Reality's the rage and oh the blood coined. "How gauche!" our petite Claudia sighs, the excess in gore and waste. But, the coven has my Armand's grace. For Claudia, Madeleine the doll maker dies, reborn to mother the horrific woman 'neath this childish face. A family formed again when Lestat steps in alive and the coven lets the sun take Claudia and Madeleine. I entombed, walled in, buried alive, if not for my Armand. Their ashes, oh my dears, in death entwined. I burned the lot of them within their caskets, burnt alive; the curtain fell yet there was still Armand and I. 6 The curtain fell yet there was still Armand and I. I could nor forget, would not forget, the fate of Claudia of which he was no small part, it was a small lust easily untied. Home was all I wanted, the damp, the swamp, the bougainvillea sickened of my Old World haunts, all I wanted was home. Never, never would I make another, a comfort I decline. Let the modern age wonder where it is I roam; penance unearned and ungiven in the shadows I hide. I can not live, I can not breathe, death's my only company my wife, my child, my brother, so many others. The living dead is what we're called, Vampire, do you pity me? Lestat "Do you see me? Your sight I dread!" West coast, golden gates Baghdad by the bay in the bars I linger where men are men, aren't they? 7 In the bars, I linger, where men are men, aren't they? I find you here, or you find me? I bare my soul to you of lessons learned, of men, of plays, ah cabarets. "What do you do, what do you say, you writer you ... two footed harridan of clay? You long for the eternal kiss as if the bliss of life was so very little to pay. Fool that you are ... not in life or death would you be grist a waste you are, a mortal led so far astray. No passion's left, no fond memories ... but her golden hair. Perhaps, I'll take a taste of you, foolish fop, and sigh; no immortal will I make. On the floor, I will leave you there refuse beside the pages, the sordid tales as my reply. As my lips close on your throat, heaven's absentee, close your ears, close your eyes and pray to me.


Long poem by matthew harris | Details |

Letter to taeljejohn

uncomfortableness, and hesitation arose that you might reassess a possibility for friendship or.... whatever with me.

A disappointment set in place in the event that based on some facet of my being (inexplicable flaws within this corporeal human male), forecast that an about face (booked on charges inherent in this googly eyed, earth-linked, kool hotmail of a yahoo) would be un liked!

Juno what i mean? 

In retrospect, no matter that this average boyish chap desires enjoyment, he admits that ordinary punctuating various stages of development difficulty coping found him msn (miss sin, missin, missing, et cetera) on ordinary interpersonal experiences!

No matter yours truly usually finds me each morning, noon or night conjuring up maximizing temporary residence on this planet earth versus bemoaning those futile and essentially counterproductive mind games sans could a, might a, should a, would a...

today = the moment to cherish, enjoy, help others, ponder the remaining years
since fruitless to expend tears
for suppressed emotional, financial, grammatical, hormonal, physical, and spiritual angst
 that roiled mine inner sanctum - mainly from decades in the past
   which unseen scars with humor this fellow (who by the way likes you) wears!

Notice the sly inclusion of my comment per -- affinity, desirability, rhapsody for you
although just but a mere inkling prevails about an ye taelje john thru
a rather contrived manner - albeit an online adult oriented website - amongst a slew
which yields to this bipedal hominid a scant few
initial responses - as if a ghost app paired in the recipient email - going boo
which unwittingly seems to turn the ivy blue!

So...no matter a constancy of follow-up electronic communiques occurs from ye
bringing tears of joy, that nobody can see
while simultaneously delivering digital glee
a reality check restrains proclivity and predilection to let thoughts run wild and free!

Immense and immeasurable mounts in moi little rock
inducing an electric arc for myself to kin neck embedded in all this schlock
for a sixth sense arises that this holme body strongly suspects yar self 
 to generate sunny watts as an s spy she lee Sherlock

but, reticence to gush with ebullience reins in a cascade
of utter delight washing o'er this less than satisfactory mwm 
 who as a boy and youth happened to b a frayed
of his own shadow - while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams
 listening to the sounds of silence on a green-day.

Thus => the following from one 

Cerebral being ™ in the am and pm
 
This ordinary human
Finds himself a mystery
Within the terrestrial
Firmament and frequently
Feels in a feverish pitch
At his existence
That seers the temple
Mounted upon this slender
Frame - wrought by the
Combination of genetics
In tandem with exercise
Which latter helps to
Sublimate the coiled 
Tension wound tightly 
Like an indestructible spring 
Without a healthy medium at large 
To channel emotions fraught within
Me might find demise
That would rent asunder literate fellow 
And thus annihilate without a trace
One true valued father of two us special
Lovely lasses as just another statistic among 
The obituaries!
 
As the world turns (indiscriminately oblivious of the harrowing days per one simian), an agreeable, amiable, edible, immeasurable, likeable, pleasurable, sensible woman (such as yourself - predicated on a gut level intuition) goads more seriousness to share

Plaintive unheard heart strings o mine that wail
Displeased with this marriage fraught with travail
As if in a maelstrom whip-lashed vessel without a sail
Yet - averse to lambaste or rail
Against abby (whereby we pass like two ships in the night) who married this male
When each of us happened to seem more similar 
   And thought each ourselves to fail
At any endeavor, though now confidence 
   Buoys my heart while she doth ail

And exemplifies attitudes, beliefs, efforts, 
   Idiosyncrasies, pathos that life does rot
Ill suited to Matthew Scott, 
   Whose bon vivant manifesting faith in him
   Perhaps from herself deferring many domestic 
   And child rearing tasks not
Of course being boasting - even when scissoring the umbilical cord
   As a now beaming papa, whose daughters 
   Blithely ignore "mother" a lot
Thus necessitating this quest 
   For a counterpart to offer succor 
   To eden (age 16) and shana (14 on february 4th, 2013) 
   Yet accepts that i must dispel any dreamy fantasy even this ours - a mere jot
At this juncture knowing full well how unwise to set myself up for disappointment
   By thinking and rushing like a fool, 
   Where angels fear to tread
   Though "chutzpah" i got!

U r slowly filling my mindscape with joy
Thank you so much - for accepting without complaint how atypically words this writer wannabe 
   Named Matthew Scott Harris dozen ploy.



Long poem by Anthony Slausen | Details |

Rouging of the Lamb

        Sweet Mother of pearl
struck a ruby eyed reef 
then quickly sank into the deep,
just shy of the cay of life. 
Don't remember much about her,
those that did have long since blown away,
daddy  never had much to say... about the sinking.
Ancient pictures tempered fawn curiosities..
whispered to me that she had sunset red hair
a mother of pearl smile..
diamond chips set deep in lonely eyes...that's about it
    
 Soon after the sediment of death settled,
         "wrecking ball mom"
swung into the salty blue mix... 
Daddy must have been moon rock lonely
because he only waifed the soft, silky pretty
not the pyrite hearted 
soul licked
by cold, cold fires....
     A much to young, to cuddle a half orphan, kind of bride.
In public her voice cooed ,
"I'll buoy your little sinking heart,
with a million butterfly kisses
chocolate chip all your wishes"...
but in private
she plotted, with steely strap, to carve a granite man 
from a wandering lamb,
who never really needed carving 
only a little gentle kneading
on the potters wheel of life and love.
     I spent a healthy wedge of childhood 
treading a rolling ocean of dorsal fin coldness:
cutting a backyard full of weeds 
with a pair of rusty hand shears,
rescuing favorite toys from the garbage can
staring into plates of things I didn't like to eat.
like asparagus my least favorite "anti-treat".
Everyone would drift into the living room
to frolic away the evening
but I was chained to her electric chair... 
gazing into a saucer filled with green devil spears..
At times I sat so long the food would harden 
into the face of  mother of  pearl, 
her sweetness trapped between rows of bitter things.. 
a gone forever kind of look in our mutual deadened eye.
    Most of the time wrecking ball mom won the food battles. 
Rarely did the boy under the sink come out on top.
One night I'm sparring with the devil spears... again,
deciding on a whim, to slide them under the table, 
into the willing jaws of my beagle friend.
Chalk one up for the half orphan...right?....Not so fast.
The next day I shuffle home from school...
wrecking ball mom is frothing in the doorway,
wants to show me something..
She quickly leads me under the kitchen table
and to my ,deep green, horror..
there lay a small forest of day old asparagus..
Seems this is the one thing my best friend didn't care for.
This is when I was first introduced to 
wrecking ball's wicked handiwork,
that would often rouge the face and back, 
but cunning enough not to crease or crack the lamb.
wham...wham... 
I saw "hitting stars" for the first time,
wham.... wham.. 
I swear a cluster of explosions went off inside my head..
Carving a man out of a paper lamb 
was a long and painful sort of task.
In a way I felt lucky because, for a moment, 
I thought she was going to rub my nose into the regurgitation, 
Just like the time she rubbed the nose of my best friend for pissing up her new bride carpet.
By the way, daddy (the swing shifter) was oblivious to these rougings ...
its ok daddy your fully forgiven for wearing that rose colored hard hat,
we all must wear it at some point in time-to deflect the offal of life.
       Anyhow, that was many years ago...
doesn't really matter anymore,
I've outlived a few best friends.
the wrecking ball's backhanding and black belting days are over. 
She's silver headed and soft as a plate of over cooked veggies...
Every time I visit, I fantasize about rouging her...
wham- wham
until she sees that same pack of hitting stars...
wham- wham until she cracks...
You know, carve an old step bride 
into an under the sink child.
rub that nose in yesterday's piss in honor of my best dead friend.
Unveil those wrinkled whips disguised as mommy hands,
for the whole rosy eyed world to finally see.
but that fantasy will forever go unfulfilled...god willing..
So instead I offer her an atlantic-cold hug instead.
just like any good, semi-forgiving step man would do.
        
Now, I'm heart deep 
in the meloncholy mist of fatherhood..
To this day, I won't touch asparagus
and 
never never 
rouge the lamb- 





Long poem by Faleeha Hassan | Details |

Black Iraqi Woman

Black Iraqi Woman
Written by Faleeha Hassan
Translated from the Arabic by William Hutchins
Shortly before my father died, he whispered to me longingly: “Daughter, treasure this, because it authenticates your heritage to our kinsfolk!” When I accepted this object, I discovered it was a stone with inscriptions I did not understand and delicate, mysterious lines.  He continued, “It is a keepsake from our great-great grandfather and can ultimately be traced back to Bilal, the Holy Prophet’s first muezzin, and his father, who was the king of Ethiopia.” I accepted this small heirloom, which I carried everywhere with me in my handbag. The person who shared my life under the title of “husband,” however, threw it down the drain at our house, thinking–as he told me–that it was a fetish. From then till now I have endured successive exiles. So I wrote this poem to explain the secret of my skin color–given that I am a native of al-Najaf, Iraq–spiritually, mournfully, and poetically!
My father said: “You were born quite unexpectedly,
Remote from Aksum, like a beauty spot for al-Najaf-’the Virgin’s Cheek.’
Your one obsession has been writing, but
The sea will run dry before you arrive at the meaning of meaning.”
He affirmed: “During a pressing famine,
I devoted myself to watching over every breath you took.
I would thrust my hand through the film of hope
To caress your spirit with bread.
You would burp, and
I would delightedly endure my hunger and fall asleep.
I could only find the strength to fib to your face and say I was happy.
I would feel devastated when you fidgeted,
Because you would always head toward me,
And I felt helpless.”
Aksum! They say you’re far away!
“No, it’s closer to you than your exile.”
“And now?”
“Don’t talk about ‘now’ while we’re living it.”
“The future depresses me. How can I proceed?”
How can the ear be deaf to the wailing from the streets?
Aksum, you have colored my skin. Al-Najaf has freshened my spirit.
She knows and does the opposite.
She knows that I inter only dirt above me, and
That I deny everything except spelling out words:
M: Mother, who went walking down the alley of no return.
F: Father, who hastened after her.
B: Brother, who never earned that title.
S: Sister who buttoned her breast to a loving tear, no matter how fake.
………………….There’s no one I care about!
The trees tremble some times, and we don’t ask why.
My life surrounds me the way prison walls surround suspects;
I am the victim of a building erected by a frightened man.
With its talons time scratches its tales on me,
And I transform them into a silent song
Or, occasionally, a psalm of sobs.
Father, do you believe that–the roots have been torn asunder?
Fantasies began to carry me from al-Najaf to Afyon
And from Afyon to nonexistence,
Yellow teeth stretching all the way.
“History’s not anything you’ve made,”
One American neighbor tells another.
He’s surprised to see me.
“Who are you?” he asks when he doesn’t believe his eyes.
Would he understand the truth of my origin if I told him I was born in al-Najaf
Or that Aksum has veiled my face?
I have walked and walked and walked.
I’m exhausted, Father.
Is your child mine?
Show yourself and return me to the purity of your loins.
Allow me to occupy the seventh vertebra of fantasy!
Don’t eject me into a time I don’t fit.
I need you.
I ask you:
Has my Lord forbidden me to be happy?
Am I forbidden to preserve
What I have left
And sit some warm evening
Averting my ear from a voice that doesn’t interest me?
Answer me, Father!
Or change the face of our garden
So it changes….to what they believe!


Long poem by Elena Frank | Details |

The voice of addiction


''Welcome to Hell," the sign should've read,
Reaching your destination-its all in your head!
Thank you, for your invention.
I'l. Never  leave your side.
We'll become very acquainted.
My child, there's no where to hide
"Last call for the train heading to Nowhere Fast,"
The memories you create will forever last.
I bet you feel silly
Falling right into my lap.
I'm a master at temptation
You'll cant escape my trap.
Don't pray to god he left your side
Just take my hand and let us collide.
I will teach you how to play the game.
How does it feel to dance with the Devil?
Did you realize yet that we are the same?
Are you honestly going to try and beat me?
A useless battle if you want to know.
Go ahead and give it a shot
 I'm in the mood for a good show.
I'll always be your dirty little secret.
I won't disappear over time.
I guess, you think your special.
But I won't leave without a fight 
Ill do my best to bring you back,
I'll keep you up at night.
When ever you will want me 
You know I'm always near
I will remain your nightmare,
I'm still your biggest fear.
A vicious cycle, that’s what I am
I tend to only speak the truth
I'm Satin's weapon of destruction.
The silent killer of your youth.

"the voice of victory"
One year sober, the world seemed dim and black. 
But I made a promise and I'm not going back.
I whipped my eyes, there is no reason to cry.
The time has come to say goodbye.
You brought me joy, but mostly strife.
Then you started to take over my life.
It felt so natural I didn't think twice.
But your a king at manipulation and you played it nice.
It's been 2 years I guess that you lied.
You said there is no way out, but I called your bluff.
I reslize now that enough was enough.
The path I have chosen led me the wrong way. 
No one thought I will service, but here I stand today.
The memories of your sweet rush are no longer a threat.
I have done many things in life but you were the biggest regret.
I know temptation oh so well.
I know your everywhere, waiting to lead me to hell.
Save your self the trouble and don't even Try.
I locked the gates to hell when I said goodbye.
But I hear this voice inside my head.
I know I burried you yet you are not dead.
The fantasy world you provided was nothing but a lie.
Your a constant reminder that life can change in a blink of an eye.
I have been clean for too long to go back to my old ways.
I like the new me and this is how it must stay.
Life may get hard and I might get off track. 
But don't count on me, I am not coming back.
I am happy with my life,been though its not the same.
Drugs took so much from me but I beat the devil at his game.
This is a voices that reside in my head.
So I desided to share them with the world instead.
Life may get hard and things will fall apart.
But remember tomorrow is always a new start.
There is many ways to deal and cope.
And believe me neither one of them is connected to dope.
Don't take the easy way out, it will will destroy who you are.
Don't chose drugs as your escape, they won't get you to far.
I share because I know 
that once your in, you can't let go.
They are every where and the each have a name.
I was lucky enough to defeat this game.
But not all off us are strong enough. 
Not all of us can call the bluff.
Never dance with the devil, is the advice I will give.
Because god has a plan for everyone, so you must always believe.
When things hit rock bottom and life fills with fear.
Remember that god didn't bring you this far to just leave u here.


By: Elena Frank 


Long poem by Aaron Vialpando | Details |

Perche Sono Me

Perchè Sono Me (Why I am me)
I keep learning because I am tired of watching others fail. 
I speak because my mind wants to gain more knowledge. 
I will not follow others by the tail. 
My tale will be long and prosperous. 
Who are you to judge when you have fallen into an abyss? 
You are not a kindly sir or miss.

You ask as to why I wear the color. 
My response is elaborately not swift 
Why do I wear the black and black mostly and nearly only
I wear the black because of all the wrong lives that live for the wrong reasons
I wear it as a tribute to the ‘Man in Black’
I wear it as a reminder to all that I am in the shadows and I see what your schemas are
It is my favorite colore
On twenty and on body I wear it because I am tired of being around cement blocks that never 
change

Why are you single? you ask. 
Will you ever wed? 
Simply, because so many of you are not loyal or interested. 
But wait until someone asks you before I or after I and then you will be all over them like a little 
puppy.
It is highly appalling that you behave in the manner you do. 
You would rather have instant gratification instead of having someone who is going somewhere.
It just goes to show everyone that you are not willingly to wait for positive results. 
Addio tu, I say to you. 
In regards to wed non lo so. 
Perchè sono stanco da inmature ragazze. 
Because I am tired of inmature girls. 
To many of you want instant gratification and are not willing to wait. 
I know what I want and it is neither of you. 
What I want is someone who has honor, patience, understanding and love. 
None of you have this. 
You only think you have this. 
Mostly the lot of you are just oblivious to your minds and the world around you. 
Curse Maslow and grazie to him.

Why do you play so many instruments? you ask. 
I do it because I have no ties to you.
I do it because you have no true passion. 
I do it because it is my life, excuse, and therapy. 
Each instrument brings joy to others that have appreciation for it. 
You have no appreciation since you never come to free concerts that are open to the public. 
Will you read my words or will you simply like it or leave a comment? 
It may even go over your head. The grass is only greener on the other side when the caretaker 
takes care of it. 
My instruments are my soul and spirit. 
Without them I would be like you. 
Odio tu.

You end up asking why I complain about life and its imperfections. 
I complain about it because I believe in perfection. 
I complain because I have a voice. 
I complain because I am tired of living in a fantasy that has no parole. 
Above all I complain because I will not settle for anything less than the best. 
I am not content because I will always strive for more.

There will come a time that you wish you were mine; because, I have more than a dime. 
In your eyes I will have more to offer. 
In my eyes I will see that you want one thing from me. 
Honestly, you had a chance back then but you saw what I did not have. 
In truth you failed to see what I had to offer. 
Anyone can spend another person’s money; but it takes a real person to help the other one fly 
when their wings have fallen.

In the end I will say this “I stood tall and did it my way.”


Long poem by Evonne Van Gundy | Details |

Five Years

On a dim September morn,
My passion for you was reborn.
Like the lotus from the depths,
I felt like I had bloomed.
For the first time, in forever, I 
felt alive!
Knew I had a soulmate! Love 
survives!
True bliss...hope, promise.
Wishes do come true.
Silent, no jinx, no rushing 
things.
Forbidden union. Secret wings.
Born to both, passive lust.
Mentally orgasmic...purpose 
met.
You loved me, or so you said,
Until you had me in your bed.
Typical, or so you'd think,
The master of deceit.
You were embarrassed! You 
were ashamed!
Unless you were in control of 
the game.
Happy to have me by your side,
As long as it was on your 
terms. 
Promise, promise, fairytale.
Spinning your seductive tale.
Breathing lies and fantasy.
Making me your pawn.
Lure me into your gilded web,
Notes and gestures and things 
you said.
Ease me into the storyline,
Just a faceless character in 
your song.
Love and trust and infatuation!
Never doubting your 
dedication!
Except that little voice inside...
Whispering, "too good to be 
true..."
Break me, bruise me, beat me 
up,
At the hands of your precious 
truck.
Once again, she was worth 
more than me.
Sorry you had to loose.
By my side, or so I thought,
Laughing as I failed...and 
fought.
You watched me struggle! 
Watched me fall.
Convenient means to an end.
I made it. I stood. I persevered
Not exactly the same, but I 
never veered.
Never blamed. Never pointed. 
Stuck to your plan.
At least one of us can be true.
Older, wiser, better off...
You'd think...but my heart went 
soft.
Thinking you actually loved 
me...
Even a fraction of how much I 
loved you.
Laughs, and fights...years 
passed by,
Ghosts and wine and delusional 
high.
Mistaking guilt and reputation,
For a notch or two on our 
headboard.
Ignore me. Blame me. Twist 
and shout.
Taking it. Isn't that what 
womanhood's about?
I'll cope. I'll apologize.
Been through this before.
How I wish your eyes weren't 
so blue.
And your smile...alone, what it 
can do.
Making me wonder if somehow, 
someway,
You'll be my first...regret.
And, that amazing night! With 
the sunset and the view!
When I leaned, exactly what 
naïveté can do.
My heart broke in ways that 
can never mend.
Swallowing shards of gift.
Why do you insist on this 
double life?
Shrapnel, from an edgeless 
knife.
There's the door. Show yourself 
out.
I refuse to be less than first.
What the fuck is wrong with 
you?!?
I scream! I yell! But, what do I 
do?
Swoon and sway and forgive. 
Forget?
Ask me tomorrow.
Rise. Set. Nights go by.
Still choking down your 
lie...about a lie.
I'm not stupid. Not young. Not 
blind.
I can give you up - I just need 
to know why? 
Torn. Sick. Saddened. Afraid.
If you want her...go. What 
would it change if you stayed?
I was a risk from the very start.
You're a sadist at the very core.
I can tell you, from the bottom 
of my heart,
You don't always get everything 
you want.
Life works in mysterious ways.
And, karma...she's a bitch.
Just remember... You left her. 
There was a reason for that.
And know, I'm where your 
loyalty should be at.
If that's not enough, I'll 
apologize once more...
Five years you'l never get back. 


 


Long poem by randall graves | Details |

What is real

Moments to Reflect
What’s real?
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature.
We live our life seeking that perfect picture of the way things should be in our finite existence, the idea mate, the perfect job. Enough money to do the things we want to do or have the things that that are grand. The toys inn life; new cars, huge homes, name brand cloths, jewels, and let us not forget those fantastic vacation to make us feel good about ourselves and the list goes on and on. True enough some of us achieve dreams beyond most, but at what cost? It is said that it easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle than rich man into heaven, and yet we seek riches. 
Fantasy or reality; is this what life truly means or is it all a dream? The sleeper must awaken; nothing comes to the sleeper but a dreams and nightmares. This depends on who you ask or where you are on lifes ladder; but to the father none of this matter. True treasures are waiting for those that have faith in what has been foretold two thousand years ago.
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature. Life is what you make it your for the taking, this is what the world agrees on, that if you are of this world and if you are of this world  you could be in peril. Fantasy and dreams what do they really mean when you gone.
There is one who offers treasures beyond what this world can offer, dreams that are a reality and life for all eternity. Love, joy and a peace of mind you will find, no worries wants everything your heart could desirer. All your needs will be met if faith in Jesus you kept. Believing that he die for your sins and ascended three day late and you will be in with His grace seeing a smile upon His face. Fantasy or reality this is a decision you alone must make and the time is getting late. The truth will set you free but if you stay in your mind and within the world; death is emanate and eternal and torment is guarantee deep within the pit of hell.
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature. 
No matter what cards are dealt to you there is a way that seems right; is it? Then there the Way, the Truth and the Light and it is written for all to read, it gives life. This truth deals with fact not fiction for those who believe. It is the key to life and all of your dreams. It a gift that you must claim and it free for the asking and the words are simple indeed; Jesus will please come inside of me and forgive of my sins and set me free. Will you receive it; all you do is have to believe it 
For god so loved the world that He gave his one and only Son; that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16   niv


Long poem by randall graves | Details |

Moments to Reflect What's Real updated

Moments to Reflect
What’s real?
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature.
We live our life seeking that perfect picture of the way things should be in our finite existence, the idea mate, the perfect job. Enough money to do the things we want to do or have the things that are grand. The toys in life; new cars, huge homes, name brand cloths, jewels, and let us not forget those fantastic vacation to make us feel good about ourselves and the list goes on and on. True enough some of us achieve dreams beyond most, but at what cost? It is said that it easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle than a rich man into heaven, and yet we seek riches. 
Fantasy or reality; is this what life truly means or is it all a dream? The sleeper must awaken; nothing comes to the sleeper but a dreams and nightmares. This depends on who you ask or where you are on life ladder; but to the Father none of this matter. True treasures are waiting for those that have faith in what has been foretold two thousand years ago.
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature. Life is what you make it your for the taking, this is what the world agrees on, that if you are of this world and if you are of this world  you could be in peril. Fantasy and dreams what do they really mean when you gone.
There is one who offers treasures beyond what this world can offer, dreams that are a reality and life for all eternity. Love, joy and a peace of mind you will find, no worries wants everything your heart could desires. All your needs will be met if faith in Jesus you kept. Believing that He die for your sins and ascended three day late and you will be in with His grace seeing a smile upon His face. Fantasy or reality this is a decision you alone must make and the time is getting late. The truth will set you free but if you stay in your mind and within the world; death is emanate and eternal and torment is guarantee deep within the pit of hell.
Fantasy is described by Webster’ dictionary as: “more or less connected series of mental images, as daydreams, usually involving some unfulfilled desires”. Reality is described as “the quality of being true to life: fidelity to nature. 
No matter what cards are dealt to you there is a way that seems right; is it? Then there the Way, the Truth and the Light and it is written for all to read, it gives life. This truth deals with fact not fiction for those who believe. It is the key to life and all of your dreams. It a gift that you must claim and it free for the asking and the words are simple indeed; Jesus will please come inside of me and forgive of my sins and set me free. Will you receive it; all you do is have to believe it 
For God so loved the world that He gave his one and only Son; that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16   niv


Long Poems