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Long Irony Poems | Long Irony Poetry

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

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Long Poems
Long poem by ephraim crud | Details |

a conflict of words

i miss the affect and effect
my father's experiences
of mindless mass destruction
and madness
that had me pinned to every word
as moonlight on each
shone down on their dugout

'johnny, got a light'

dad lit his zippo


and eric was gone

he didn't hear a thing
no bullet whirr
not even the 'tink' of his helmet

and i think how good it is
to smell life
to sniff an ambush of the heart
under heavy fire as he
forced to headlong a ditch
landed tete-a-tete
on the bloated green remains
of the enemy
and promptly puked over its putrid face
and shat himself
he'd not hear the next 'tink'

six hour he laid there
six ****ing hours

and i '****' and carp
as my oh-so convenient
worldwide walkie-talkie bill
dollops the coconut footwipe
and curse the dog crapped patio

can you imagine

i can feel the ****

the blink last glance in the mirror

reflecting how lucky i am
to breathe this chink of words
for your pleasure
tear or revulsion
your notions of a small constellation

and how good it is to eye
those chinks in the dark
that effeminate uncle john
may have faced
but for happenstance

his brother donald being short-fused
had stuck his cornea with scissors
which saw him stage
his most memorable performance
tending the testosterone of gold braid
for the duration
down the salt-watered south

others committed harakiri
for such failing the flag
for humility's sake

or the drip drip drip 
of a tortuous rising sun

or the footrot thunder of a flemish field
or sodden wood where
on a sudden an adolescent fritz
no more summers than fifteen
crossed hairs in his eye

and dad sighted
his mutter at home
worried for the safe return of her joy
and her heart broken
by the black edged letter
as he triggered his brain
to a million specks of red

and wept uncontrollably
for an age
the futility and long awaited remembrance
of all those poor bastards whose heroics
led them insane
and blindfolded by their own waste

but it's dog eat dog

someone has to helm the hounds
be the master of bloodshed
suicide dead or alive
when demons rise

and i think of the insomnia
souls nightmared by hazard
horror lost hope
and the monsters that hatched
and slithered rope tricks
to mangoes pineapples
and hog plums

yet how good
to bite the sinful fruit
to feel the thunder of a storm

the cosiness of chintzy-chintzy
chinwags and muffled naughtiness
secreted beneath blankets
amid the cramped inconveniences
of smells and belly rumbles

and the weather speaks gales
blowing from the north

as on the day he reached
a small homestead
somewhere in belgium
a one room
one door where a woman hung
from a knife through the throat
her mammaries and genitalia
ripped from her red
and her daughter
of a few million breaths
swung in the chilled air
from a meathook in a beam
while a sepia'd loved one
stood by and smiled

and i think of the propaganda
the espionage and intrigue
the red herrings meticulously cast
for the irony of a pretend war
enduring the stark misery

but lies can be a bonus
in extreme circumstances
to assuage the inevitable hurricane
of atrocities
in the apple of its eye
and how good it is
to feel the skin and wetness
of love
of gooseflesh giggling

to laugh a moment's relief
as father's platoon
in a lull from fear and sunshine
as they smoked and dusted their boots
through the ardenne forest
five abreast
hundreds of them 
when a whistle shellshocked the blood
pumping from the neck of
'jockey whips'
a glaswegian from peckham
who loved his potatoes greasy
and collapsed
after several headless footfalls

they never found his looks

and dad hungered how good
another chance of roast pork
and a handshake would be

and i think of the logistics
that beggars belief
and how much better equipped
to manage death than life
we are
with all the fields that have harvested
bones of memories
blood rusted metal
medals hung from heroes
and arseholes alike

and i think of the what ifs

had little maria schicklgruber
drowned in a viennese lake

had hitler a bullet with his name
in world war one

the lives that would have had
their due iceblink of this gift
this diamond moment
to experience sunups
moonlight serenades
of love as i've been blessed
because an austrian megalomaniac 
choreographed my parents footsteps 
to me
affecting and effecting your life
with my words

Long poem by Verlena S. Walker | Details |



Opening the window for a breeze… Dogs are barking!  My mind is only on me.  Relaxing…  As my story of the day unfolds, someone knocks.  Startling me, I hurry to the front door.  There stands an image of long-ago.  We hug and I let him in.  I begin to remember how deeply in love I was with this man.  But our destinies had to part and I left with my heart.  We talked for hours.  No intimacy transpired between us because we knew our lives was not fair to us and therefore, we did not desire any closeness.  Just reminiscence of tragedy we had went through for healing purposes on this three-year Anniversary.


What happen?  You may ask.  This is the tale as is.


His mother desired to be me.  So she set out to steal my identity.  In darkness she laid in our bed waiting on Ted.  A man entered the room and she presumed her man had come home.  Voicing that she was there, my stalker shot her three times in  the head.  The bullets were for me.  In irony, she had really stolen my identity.  He shot himself as well ending my dilemma.

The police came on the screen afraid that it was me.  Ted and I played it off.  He had told me his ordeal with his mother as a teenager.  He was the star athlete at our high school.  His mother was unstable and desired him for her sex tool.  She will explain that this would keep them close but he could not tell anyone.  His grandmother, on his father side. had fill Ted in on his mother family history of incest.  Ted figured he did not want any part of that mess.  So he asked his father could he live with him but he also keep in contact with his mother because of his sister and brother.  His father said yes to Ted and asked his other kids did they want to live with him as well.  It so happen that his sister was close to their mother and his brother was also.  So they said no.

Ted graduated from high school as valedictorian of his class and his body was explosive.  Ted was fine as he could be.  He now could communicate with his mother without her approaching him for sex.  He had not told his father of this instead he kept this to himself.  Nevertheless, his mother, in secret, still desired her son.

Ted and I started dating in high school.  I was familiar with his family through us living in the same metropolitan city: however, not in the same community.  We end up going to the same university in the city we lived in and our relationship flourished.

We moved into our apartment while we were in college and his  mother use to come over.  And now, three years later, we remember the tragedy.  Ted cries out to me and I answered.  We are bonded by our relationship but not by marriage.  He has successfully conquered his demons and mine's disappear on that night of my stalker killing himself.

Ted mother was wealthy and I knew that she only was nice to  me because of Ted.  The police discovered she had paid my stalker to pursue me as his prey.  Ted has been told this as well and he stated that is why his mother is dead in which he says quietly to himself: “This ends this horrid tale.”

[Queasy Queen Beings and they do not know anything of it. Ted is Queasy Queen’s son and he has her powers. He would have acquired his mother’s powers without help, which would have been through incest before forty (40). However, incest did not happen between Ted and his mother, Queasy Queen; therefore, he will acquire her powers at the age of forty (40).  His sister and brother have theirs but did not divulge because there mother had explain theirs to them when she bestowed.  Telling Ted’s sister, Harmony, at ten (10) what she was doing as she assisted her in getting dressed, which was lesser than incest. she kissed her ******. Telling Ted’s brother, Destine, at fifteen (15), when she gave him a kiss as he was leaving why she ****** him, which was lesser than incest. Incest was only for Ted because he was the oldest and her first born. His grandmother on his father side knew nothing of this because she was human and disagreed with incest openly. More so, this was unheard of through an entity of the government.]

Long poem by Timothy Hicks | Details |

Know That I Am There

It's the best I can do to explain myself
is standing in between it all, so I can view both sides.
Who are you to say that a summer days more beautiful
than the dead of night?
You profess to have to wisdom by dousing words in philosophical jargon,
but I'm here to let it all loose with an unchained honesty...
it's the best bargain
I have to offer. I practice love cause it's simple.
Respect your body cause it's sacred, a well built temple.
like ramen noodles from the supermarket, just add water
and presto! Easier than reading words off a teleprompter.
Uncensored laughter like it ought to be,
letting it self be know, however audibly.
You don't have to have to reason to love thy neighbor.
When smiles are born from your efforts,
ain't no such thing as hard labor.
Nobody's righteous, man, just a few
who strive to be a little less wicked.
No matter the masks we give ourselves
is ever gonna change the facts that the clock's still ticking.
I believe in God despite what friends close to me might say.
For the sake of fitting in I could claim ignorance,
but there's just no other way.
Cause I know at the end of the day,
there's one all encompassing thought that keeps the doubts at bay,
there's gotta be something more than what I see currently.
Is it so naive to think there lies ahead my unfolding destiny?
God's guidance may be obtained from a book, perhaps,
but I dare you to take a second look
when passing by a mirror
... tell me there's more than what appears.
Is it God you see or is it the devil?
Now let me bring it up a notch to a philosphical level.
Whether you're planting the seeds of kindness
or the seeds of deceit, either way,
it takes effort to roll up your sleeves.
You might as well just be providing carbon dioxide for the trees.
If you don't take chances nothing much happens:
the universe and I unanimously agree.
Call me cardinal cause here I am stating first things first.
Just who the hell are you and what's your purpose?
If a messenger is what you be make it clear as crystal.
Vagueness and obscurity be corruptions might.
A gardener need not be afraid of thorns and thistles.
That's where the berries congregate, am I right?
It's all just talk and not enough walk,
with poetic phrasing I aim to knocks your socks off.
But if you judge by actions I'd be lucky to get a sneeze or cough.
Oh the bitter irony of this conundrum!
A lover of the night who chaseth the sun.
I'm stuck between my two great loves:
The naps in the shadow
and the beauty of the spotlight.
My wish to see the crowds
from the solace of the clouds
or be squeezed between 'em, airtight.
But I just cannot seem to change my outlook,
in many ways I'm both a closed door and a open book.
War and politics wish to claim my writer's soul,
though love and kindness be the intended goal.
They be packing nuclear weapons, but all I got is this pistol.
Flashing with them golden intentions like bedazzled tinsel.
But when the end comes all our egos take advice from soft drinks, fade and fizzle
Guess peace never come, 'til Jesus blows forth the heavenly whistle.
I can't just brush the deaths going on around me as nothing,
despite what the Beatles sang about, love isn't everything,
from experience I've learned, however,
when all you care for just shatters,
love is perhaps the only thing that matters.
So when you see me or when you don't,
a person you can touch and feel or a singular thought
pulled straight from thin air,
know that I am THERE!
I have a heart and mind, and flesh and bone.
Knowing this none can say that I am alone.

Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |


                                “Once very near the end I said, 'If you can -- if it is allowed – 
                                 come to me when I too am on my death bed.”

                                 “Allowed!' she said. “Heaven would have a job to hold me;
                                  and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits.” 

                                  Oh God, God, why did you take such trouble to force 
                                  this creature out of its shell if it is now doomed to crawl back
                                  -- to be sucked back -- into it?

                                                                    ~ C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed ~


The division should be acute, the before her, the with her, the after her,
Yet there is this constant rattling of doors, though they remain locked,

in theory. I think of her as gone until I turn a page and read a passage 
of pompous dialogue and she returns, My Joie de Vivre, entertaining me 

with that puckish wit, unabashed. She smiles in the dusk with crusading 
colours that bend dark horizons, changing clouds unexpectedly. What was I 

before Joy*? Content, pleasant and productive. But was I alive, aware of
Life, its blissful rhythms? Irony defined: the heart which awakened stone 

no longer beats. Finally, I understand. Lessons are sharp things which
infect both fresh and aging amputations. What do I do with this knowledge? 

It is like learning a language that is no longer spoken, a long monologue 
unbearably forlorn, painful. Faith dismisses hauntings, yet she does so 

in daily degrees, oh, the sweet ghosts that peer from those notes, my name 
underscored in margins. Why is there only one glove in the sewing box?  

Agony hunts me in the garden. Perfume almost, but not quite a match.
Some rooms have snares. I dare not open a kitchen drawer. Pain waits there.

The specter of my former self, a staunch gent, so sure of Heaven's role, 
that cold bloke follows me in the shadows, land of man’s rage and despair.

There is no pretty death, no words can comfort the ravaged left behind,
There is no poetry in our departing; I only pray there is Godspeed in mine. 

*Written Nov 4, 2012

Joy Gresham Davidman, American poet, and C.S. Lewis, English writer and Oxford scholar, were good friends and married solely for the purpose to keep Joy in England (contested). But love came, as it has a habit of doing, when least expected, after Joy was diagnosed with terminal cancer. There love was true and deep, and her death shattered Lewis. His book, A Grief Observed explores his anguish and a Christian’s questions which arise during times of suffering. The film, Shawdowlands, is based on the biography, Through the Shadowlands: The Love Story of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman. Lewis died 3 years after Joy. The above poem is a conjecture on my part, as no one can truly know what lies in another's heart, alive or otherwise.  

Long poem by Richard D Seal | Details |

USS Linda

               The Seven Seas of  Rhye
A mythical destination for all those that do wrong.

This write sang to the tune of
When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, Hurrah, Hurrah
             USS Linda

She sails the high seas of the soup 
Searching for a poetry scoop
Her eyes are keen, for she has been
A long time here, a poetry queen
She sails the, HIGH SEAS, of this poetry soup

The sailors standing on their decks
With kind words she will save our wrecks
The dented bows, she will raise
With an irony, of praise
Then she’ll cast off, WISE ASS, continue on her treks

She sails along, she shows no fear
Through stormy waters she will steer
She needs no man, with guiding hand
She lets you know, to understand
She makes it, QUITE CLEAR, she needs no buck-in-here               

You’ll notice that she sports an A
Lets hope that B, she stays away
Cause I don’t know, about you
But I could never, handle two
If she ever, TURNS UP, it’s on your knees and pray

She steams through waters very deep
She’ll write you verses, make you weep
Then she’ll traverse, with laughter verse
Her every word, you will rehearse
And her smoke and, MIRRORS, into your faves you keep

Upon her stern, though don’t ask why
Poet Destroyer, six foot high
Upon the waves, you find you toss
But this one, you must never cross
Or she’ll send you, TO THE, Seven Seas of Rhye
~~~~~~  ~~~~~~~~~   ~~~~~~~~   ~~~~~~~  ~~~~~
~~   ~~~~~~     ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~~~~
She might send me, ~~~o~   o ~~~~   o  ~~ o ~~~~
     ~ ~~ ~~~ ~ o ~~   TO THE,    ~~~~o ~~~    ~~~~
  ~~~   ~~~ o ~~~~  ~~~ ~~~~  Seven Seas of Rhye.
~ ~~ ~~~ ~    ~~~  o ~~ ~~~~ ~~   ~~~~  ~~~ ~~~~                                                      
                                        Blurbble glurgle

            The Seven Seas of Rhye

Fear me you lords and lady preachers
I descend upon your earth from the skies
I command your very souls you unbelievers
Bring before me what is mine

Can you hear me you peers and privy councillors
I stand before you naked to the eyes
I will destroy any man who dares abuse my trust
I swear that you'll be mine

Sister I live and lie for you
Mister do or else die
You are mine I possess you
I belong to you forever

Storm the master marathon I'll fly through
By flash and thunder fire I'll survive
Then I'll defy the laws of nature
And come out alive
Then I'll get you

Begone with you short and shady senators
Give out the good, leave out the bad evil cries
I challenge the mighty titan and his troubadours
And with a smile
I'll take you to the seven seas of Rhye

Written by Freddie Mercury for the song
Seven Seas of Rhye 

Long poem by Emm 'n Ashe Lemons | Details |

confUSion - A

We spoke forever
And then some more
He called
We both stood on our balconies
Watching the moonlit sky above
Laughing about those stories
That compare the stars with love
He closed his eyes
So that he could see
The sight before me
The red moon setting into the sun
And the ocean rising up into the red moon
A flash of green light
A dash across the sky
Fireworks and
Or shooting stars
He makes his wish
But he won't dish
He says he was hasty
Not sure he wanted it to come true at all
I pondered and pestered
But he wouldn't tell
He set a date for his confession
Friday, he said
Friday, he'll tell
So far apart yet so close together
We held up our hands and closed one eye
And as one, we wrap our pinky around the moon
A pinky promise
A lunar pinky promise
He mocks it
I mock it
Laughs at the sight we must be
Laugh at the irony
The moon isn't constant I say
He says he will always be (constant) with me
He laughs again
With me
At us
I ponder and pester
He says I must know it, it's obvious
I don't
Next night
He tells me we speak too much
And my fear bubbles out
Fear of loss
Fear of abandonment
And a sense of "I told you so"
I thought he was leaving
Never to speak to me again
Friday, he promises
He worries about my reaction
I worry about his action
We part
I remember
He stared nonstop
To make me feel awkward
I blush, I laugh
I make eye contact
And actually see them
So gray so green
Somewhere lost in between
They do make me drown
And ever since then
I cannot look him in the eyes
Without feeling a spark
A tantalizing reviving heart warming terrifying spark
But I deny
Underneath the waterfall
Only him and me
Hiding away
So far apart
I felt it that night
But I still deny
So, I lay alone
Under the moonlit night
With the stars
That relate to love
And I assume
I try to think of anything other than 
What I think it is
What I fear it is
What I've always feared would be
I must prepare myself I say
To face these fears one day
And that day may be tomorrow
My heart flutters at the thought
I do not think
That on that flash of green
He wished for me
But I do fear it
And it's my only assumption
I must prepare
What I would do
Assuming it came true
I know not what I will do
Will I say yes or runaway
So I will see him tomorrow
I say to myself: 
"To be with you
Or to be true
Do I love you?
But I know
That tomorrow you will tell me
That on that streak of light
In the moonlit night
Underneath the lovers' stars
You wished for a bar of Mars"

Long poem by Darren Robinson | Details |

Speaking Life, Speaking Death: Edited for Word Count

I’ve discovered that
My brain is a place that knows no bounds
Of expression.
A magazine of thoughts, live rounds
That lock
Into the chamber, my mouth
As my tongue cocks back,
Hammers forward and spits them out.
I’ve discovered the irony
Of saving a life while taking another
Like shooting the gunman
With a pistol to the head of my brother.
That’s gossip.
And then there’s speech that wasn’t meant that way.
Idle words that equal a
Negligent discharge, still count as foul play.
That’s why it’s best
To squeeze the trigger, staying in control
Because idle words can easily
Embed in the holes of someone’s soul.
You know. Holes caused
By bullying, holes caused by rape
And holes caused by words
Against someone’s colour, or shape.
Holes caused by
Experiencing domestic violence
And holes caused by the
Self-harm of those suffering in silence.
Holes that, blocked
By a tongue out of control,
Induce the flooding
And drowning of a weakened soul.
And consider,
Words spoken in light-hearted jest
Could become
The noose around a heavy-hearted neck.
A quick acknowledgement.
Sticks and stones may
Break my bones but words will never hurt me.
But we’d all take a
6 weeks healing over years of a mind muddled murky.
You know what I mean.
When you ask if what they said was maybe right.
And I speak from experience.
I know I’ve had those sleepless nights.
Inward frustration,
Caused by a lack of knowing why,
Causing outward tears.
Sometimes, so sad even my tears would cry.
From these times
Of Death came the lessons of speaking life.
Unlike a phoenix from the ashes,
We LEARN speaking life from peaking strife
Because speaking
Life is LEARNED, it doesn’t grow wild
Like untrimmed brambles.
Thorns and berries, harsh and mild.
There’s purpose
And a focused intent in one direction
And I found that the
Speaking of life is found in the Resurrection.
The Resurrection of Christ.
You see his last WORDS
On the cross were, “It is finished!” but then he rose
So He couldn’t
Have been talking of the end of life so we know
Death has a certain end
But life, life, through the death of Christ, always goes on
So, to speak Christ is
To speak life and die without Christ is wrong.
I said ‘His last WORDS on the cross’
Because, after that came His actions, the verbs of the cross
You see, you can’t SPEAK
Life if you don’t DO life, the verbs of the cross.
When you speak and do
Love, you speak and do life, not death
So die to self
And speak Love into lives until there’s no death left.

Long poem by John Rhinem | Details |

...."Be Still!"

The impressions of Doeg, whom slaughtered eight-five priest and their families

Always wanting to play tug of war, to keep me from my reason

Entangled inside black emeralds of broken glass....

Smiling as I reflect upon it all; these years of recent past

While spending the evening communing, composed compromise, with "My Father!"

To lift this burden from my shoulders, depredations despicable deposits

Never wanting to let go; for lucifer knows if he does, woes will soon there follow....

Oh how he makes me laugh, sometimes, as he bedazzles them with his dance?

This infective irony, always trying to lure me within, his chalice of chant; satan

Watching deliriums dangling decry from below, until, "The High Priest Melchizedek" arrives ~

A shield also reminding me once again, that my war is not with flesh and blood!

Humanities curtain calls of puppets, mastered, amid demoniacs decaying hands

Desensitized hypocaustic hypnosis, always peering through the keyholes, of let me in....

But everything has a reason I am also reminded; as not all, can remain within ones own mind

Greater visions must be held, in quest; these mountains cast, beyond "The Crest of Light" ~

Standing upon the cliffs golden edge, watching Moses pronounce, "The Glory of God!"

Behold, the transfiguration of changing tides....

Faith has brought me here, to these shores across from Galilee

To taste the souls of such, as Legion once was, dwelling, amongst the tombs

"Be still," trinomials turbulent winds, and crash upon me, your pain no more

Slashed by this slicing blade, barriers of illusions, forever gone

"Lazarus, come forth," He said, that you may know, dead, is the sting of death

As I cast it back into the wind of lost, from whence, it truly came....

Trouble me not henceforth, for "The Holy Temple" has risen

And no beast shall stand before, unmarked, by these scorching flames!

Smiling to myself as I laugh, inside, at the foolishness, of hades' eyes

Scattered, as I walk with Melchizedek once more, beyond the passing

Of this Red Seas ways....

These shadows of sacrilege, never again, shall they call my name

Among there valley of soon to be's forever, and eternal grave!

My enemy is not humanity, flesh or blood; nor am I, but a hopeless dream

"Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"~No! Not even if ten thousand demons, were about my side

The transfiguration, of, these changing tides....


...."Be Still!"

Long poem by CHUKWU DABERECHI | Details |


 Early jungle makes me a desire
To be alone in the belly of our dear beautiful mother
Because our growing up is such and irony
Which made me rejoiced each moment this time
That wishes were never allowed to be rose
For men of wrong mind to buy
There in my childhood irony moment
We fought as if it is created share hatred
We wish for all except one that pays a little pain
For i held back from all
As all held back from me and other all
Indeed, people taught that our life is a share pain
A sore injury to the world of love
Because i loved each moment my brother bleed from our father’s hell
I went behind the scene to celebrate my goal
kindly, the moment is always become
As i happily shun and damn the future
... who did you think you are with my future
I sometimes ignorantly murmur as a child
In my little kingdom emptiness, i rejoice in the brothers pain
A little hatred of thee, a more love of me
I love each time i am loved alone
To hate thee by my blood and cause sheepishly i became and honour
As this irony grows into something still ironic
I wish my pain could allow my pen speak plain
To cry such an awesome deep and sore blood
At each moment the rain of thee bath me thoroughly
To see thee share all to have me clothed
To borrow from the enemy to have me homed
even to lose all from the gods to make sure that i have all from the goddess
The brother even stole to have me meal
More like the blood and doing of the mother, it shared abroad
As brothers all lie to have me protected
 Much illiterate to make me the literate king
Oh bleed me death less i say this pain of love
Sisters risk of the night, the horror evil men to see a smile in this lips of mine
That i wish never remember the selfish boyhoodness
Ay! How i see my brother’s cry in his desolation
Not for him or for his little joy
But for the pain of a dear brother
To save all only to loose all to life a brother
Its pain of the ugly moment in a close death
It was determined and death paid of thee
But the brother and sister’s coming death
Woke brothers will up, sisters ghost down
I need to save my brother
Leave my life to save my brother
And take it once his breath is back
There the sacrifice of a dear brother made me desire
Never a child as this in my next world
Because you are a brother, a beautiful brother
A sister, very handsome sister that i hold dearest to my breath
And love dearest to my heart beat

Long poem by Joe Flach | Details |

The Contest

Of course, as soon as a new poetry contest was posted I had to immediately enter.  In this 
contest, you had to email the sponsor to get your own, unique theme.  

Off went my email; back came her reply: “Write a poem about what inspired you to write 

She even included one of her poems as a sample of what she was looking for.  A beautiful 
poem indeed; relaying the story about how her Grandmother inspired her to write.  

So, I tried to emulate her with my story.

I wrote a poem about my football coach who taught me real men can write poetry without 
feeling emasculated.  A nice poem, albeit, total fiction.

I penned a verse about my first love encouraging me to write about our romance and how 
the subsequnt breakup inspired me to write about the sorrow of love lost.  A passionate and 
beautiful poem, although pure BS.

I rhymed the touching story about how my mother, on her deathbed, confessed that she 
knew I was writing poetry by reading my secret journal for years.  Her last words to me 
were to follow my passion and write poems for her in heaven.  Problem is, my mother is 
alive and well and has never shown any interest in reading my poems.

The fact of the matter is, I cannot pinpoint a moment in time; a person; or, an experience 
that inspired me to write.

Just as I need no inspiration to breathe in order to stay alive; I write poetry as a reflexive, 
survival instinct.

Just as I need no inspiration to eat in order to satisfy my hunger; I write poems to placate 
my yearning inside.

Just as I need no inspiration to dream when I close my eyes at night; words, rhymes and 
stories fill my mind whenever I find a moment of peace in my hectic day.

Whereas, I envy those who know where their inspiration came from, I am less blessed with a 
birth of inspiration and am more cursed with an innate need to write.

In my email to the sponsor, I bragged how I was up to the challenge, but, alas, she 
presented me with a theme I cannot relate to.

I will continue to breathe words of poetry through my keyboard.
I will continue to nourish my hunger through prose.
And, I will continue to dream in rhyme and meter.

But, I have no story to wow you with about what motivated me to do so in the first place.

The irony in all of this?  After admitting this truth about myself to a complete stranger in an 
otherwise meaningless contest, I am inspired to continue to feed my curse and write poetry 
forever more.

Thanks…damn you.

Long Poems