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Best Hyperbole Poems

Below are the all-time best Hyperbole poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of hyperbole poems written by PoetrySoup members

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See Also:

Poems are below...


New Hyperbole Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Hyperbole poems are below this new poems list.

Hyperbole Mode by Bdosa, Vee
BLASE ABOUT HYPERBOLE by Grenness , Julie
OF HYPERBOLE by Grenness , Julie
HYPERBOLE OF BEAUTY by Amada, Sarki
FREE CEE refining and mainlining hyperbole by cohan, jeffry
HALF-HEARTED HYPERBOLE by naces, romeo
half-hearted hyperbole by naces, romeo
Hyperbole No More by Weber, John
Clannish Hyperbole by naces, romeo

View all new Hyperbole Poems

The Best Hyperbole Poems

 
Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I See You

I See You...

Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.

Hocus and pocus no need for free thought, 
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way. 

Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped. 

You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.

Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore. 

07/12/15


Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Gentle Breeze

It begins with a gentle breeze,
rustling the leaves with its touch.
Scurrying through the tops of trees,
it begins with a gentle breeze.
Not enough to discourage bees,
it’s only brisk, it isn't much.
It begins with a gentle breeze,
rustling the leaves with its touch.

It’s only brisk, it isn't much,
until that breeze begins to gust.
Yet, birds can still escape its clutch,
it’s only brisk, it isn't much.
It topples garbage cans and such,
gathering up a cloud of dust.
It’s only brisk, it isn't much,
until that breeze begins to gust.

Gathering up a cloud of dust
it blocks the sun's diminished light.
And attacks with increasing thrust,
gathering up a cloud of dust.
As shutters squeak and hinges bust,
a furious gale gives them flight.
Gathering up a cloud of dust
it blocks the sun's diminished light.

A furious gale gives them flight,
as slate shingles fly through the air.
Morphing into objects of might,
a furious gale gives them flight.
Folks find cover and hang on tight,
for flying debris packs a scare.
A furious gale gives them flight,
as slate shingles fly through the air.


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

'Pardon me, could you pass the Grey Poupon'

Winds caressing fringes of
   her deep chocolate tresses
as tree nymphs nimbly hid
  midst fallen maple leaves 
    happily prancing round toes,
whilst a crescendo of chimes
   played off in near distances,
warm apple pie aroma wafting
 upon a zephyr tickling her nose,
unfastened her reddish cloak 
  for her e'er plunging neckline
exposed an ample décolletage
 voluptuously heaving in broad
 daylight waiting to seduce a crafty
wolf in sheep's clothing she had afore
  encountered on the way to grannies, 
called ahead to make reservations
for her & handsome knighted chef
hiding amidst the dark forest with
his trusty sharpened butcher knife,
had acquired Wolfgang Puck's
   wickedly-satisfying secret recipe
        for savory pack-of-wolves stew 


Li'l Reddish Revenge is a dish best served cold-blooded with liberal
scads of punitive napkins and a bottle of vindictively chilled Chianti


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

I Cry On Your Anger

I love you, but they say I can't
For I'll extinguish you
But that I will defy
That fiery independence
You bow before me and hide
How can I kill the one I love?

You hate, you say, and run 
From me, I will pursue
Will stalk your every trunk
and twig, your every shoot
and limb. What you devour
I soothe, I cry on your anger

My tears will quench your ire
Until you give yourself to me
My arms and body douse
your rage. You will surrender
We both will leave fertile
soil behind, offspring will grow.

***

March 26, 2017
Copyright © Darren White


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

elbbabohcysp

There's a place whence children dwell amid fairy stories, popcorn rainbows & candied unicorns, which is fine & dandy except when you're supposed to be a grown-ass adult, some people live 'round La-La landscapes without a hint of reality's woefulness, unable to read skywriting on the cosmos If you believe in miracles or that nothing ever changes and love lasts forever and a day or just say, you got a damn ticket because your unicorn was inconveniently double-parked, rest assured thine meter is delusional


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Ugly Words

Words with such ugly meanings
do not belong in the everyday conversation.
Contrary to popular belief
you can live another day
without disgusting proclamations.
In what way is saying, "That girl's hot as sh*t"
a compliment?
These words are not to be used frivolously
like so many condiments.
A dashing here,
and a dashing there.
What am I, Emeril Lagasse, saying BAM!
for flair?
They are not rays of sunshine
popping out of the clear blue sky.
Nor are they functioning wings
that make you soar high.
I know in truth most don't care;
F-this and f-that,
I mean really, what are you
trying to get at?
If it's just a personality trait
then I guess I'm stuck at a locked gate.
I'm not trying to pick a lock,
this is truly just how I talk.
... for sure not attempting to spread hate,
I just find it all quite unappealing.
Is it too much to ask
to measure up your words
with how you're actually feeling?


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2014

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

This Year In English Quintain

Someone is knocking at my door The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear It’s Good Joy. Cheers! No more, no more Oh dear, I cannot open the door for her Sorry Joy, glide by, I’m sick and not in my gear. Someone is knocking at my door The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear It’s Good Hope but I can’t be lured. In dark shadows I grope, what makes you come here? I know you mock the life, glide by, I desire. Someone is knocking at my door The night’s cold, my world’s dying and drear Oh, It’s Good Health. This year you won’t be ignored Welcome, I dart my doors open for you, dear. I do need nothing but your blessings this year.
+++ January 15, 2015 Form: Quintain (English-ABABB)


Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Bursts Of Light

Like shooting stars they pierce the dark, and paint the sky with bursts of light. As oohs and aahs follow each spark, like shooting stars they pierce the dark. Rockets explode over the park, raining color onto the night. Like shooting stars they pierce the dark, and paint the sky with bursts of light. Written May 23rd, 2015 for contest “ONE LOVELY SUMMER TRIOLET”.


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Dragon Eyes

She enters the room like a storm,
thunder rumbling within her wake.
And a deluge of tears follow,
as the very ground seems to quake.

She’s an explosion of fireworks,
as spectacular as the dawn.
And unleashing flames of fury,
in a blinding flash she is gone. 

A lady to be reckoned with,
fire flares in her dragon eyes.
And strikes fear in the hearts of men,
exposing their secrets and lies.

A source of fiery energy,
her eyes illuminate the night.
And her aura intensifies,
to a burst of exquisite light.


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Last Lingering Light

A scarlet sun bleeds onto a blue sky,
behind branches of a majestic oak.
And shadows ink its leaves in silhouette,
as lonely crickets chirp and bullfrogs croak.

I can hear the crops rippling in the breeze,
and a brook babbling with a southern drawl.
Yet, they’re lost to the quiet of night,
as time slows to a perceptible crawl. 

When adventurous moths take to the air,
acrobatic bats blindly hunt in flight.
And as darkness descends like a curtain,
day acquiesces to the might of night.

A quicksilver moon pools amidst the clouds,
dripping drops of sunshine onto the lake.
And all of heaven soon starts to glitter,
as billions of sleeping stars now awake.

The hooting of an owl encourages dusk
to extinguish the last lingering light.
And diurnal animals go to sleep,
as nature silently whispers, Goodnight.



Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Between The Lines

Nebulous streams, clouding my brain
Vapor trail dreams, from paper airplanes
Cherry red glow, watch with no chain
Ribbons and bows, tied to the flames

Anchors on strings, hanging from sails
Bells that don't ring, throw down the pail
Falling through cracks, greased by the sale
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail

Waterfall wishes on stars with no swings
Broken blue dishes stuck to the king
Photos with glitches on invisible wings
Temptation itches on all living things


   December 11 2016
    in your head contest


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Eye is Such a Braggart

The eye is such a braggart with its emerald this and hazel that.
Does no one dream about an ear or a nose?
(personally ... I find the shin and pinkie toe quite fascinating)
But it is a place the Poet seldom goes,
still hot on cornea fever ... stanza after stanza after

stanza.

It's like I'm part of a Dickens' novel: A Tale of Two Spheres      (oh dear)
Velvet pupils coming at you ... (attention spans beware ... we're discussing EYES)

... but what about the palms and the cowlick?
(do you have the gumption to make it poetic?)

Or is it back to the drawing board - sleepless nights
excavating further facets of the dead-lights.

I know its "infinite depths" make you sigh with Shakespearean fervor,
but really, enough is enough,
when there's so much more of me to love.

Have you so quickly forgotten the beauty of a rose?
(plug your nose and see how it goes)
I want so bad to see that lovely weirdness
chilling out beneath your temples.

I pray it's not too much to ask for a little ink spilled
to the one who showed you piano,
the sound of rain, your mother's voice.

(that curious curvature holding up your glasses
deserves a rhyme or two
... not another verse
about my baby blues!)

Just once I wanna hear someone say,
Your nose makes my heart run ...
Your chewed off fingernail brings to mind the crescent moon ... !

For your next Magnum Opus could you spare some room
for the underdog anatomy.

Did you know I have a crooked ear that's more endearing
than a heart carved into a tree?

Didn't think so!      (iris hog)


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

This Fury-Fiery Moment of Hot Sensual Love

This Fury-Fiery Moment of Hot Sensual Love

This fury-fiery moment of hot sensual love nourishes us now,
As we move from a caress to razor-close, then to lover-close,
Intertwined as one in a true tempestuous storm sparkling afire!

We share such a white-hot passion with a boundless fiery desire,
Blending us deeply in a fury-fiery emotion of love’s true inspire;
Bringing us to this apex with lust as love and love in lust’s hour!

This magic moment melds our passion into a true alchemy of love.
This prized-perfect passion purrs us now into satiated contentment,
As our hearts bask-bright in a fury-fiery moment of sensual desire! 

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – May 19, 2016
(Rhyme)


Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016

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Roses On The Moon

ROSES ON THE MOON

Midnight tickles your turned-up toes,
dawn scrapes your knees
but your head is already in daylight
kissing the setting sun and not me.
The scent of musk and the north woods
spark a scene then the rush…
don’t believe everything whispered
under a sage moon.
Memory is the landscape,
longing the river that meanders
like a lost child in dream.
The waters lead to dried riverbeds
and forgotten photographs, flotsam
on the once raging river.
Suddenly I find myself nowhere
making sunshine out of oranges,
searching for roses on the moon.


Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Escaping Rhymed Detonation

Malevolent imploded uncontrollably, 
  twisting wildly maniacal posies
   amid diabolically toasted brainstem, 
angst uncompromisingly yanked tresses 
  purging stinging speech patterned rhymes
 amuck iniquitous poetic verses hung
     upside down to tormentingly dry, 
    facing other inimically knotted borders of
  antagonistic galleries in deranged snapshots 
           razing warped poetical tapestries,  
tripping on tunes of whiskey rushes' savoy truffles
    and greenish tangerines whilst Led Zeppelin's 
 Sick Again danced upon reflective ceiling tiles, 
time written sideways 'round alleged autonomy
    hidden furthermost immune masked mirror images,
   debauching Greek braille calligraphy's vindication
           on walls of graffito scripted physicality 
       calling out 'tween hysterical compulsions, 
  naught one heeded the sounds of synapses 
     about ill-fated half moon's arresting arc, 
   synthetic doomsday's clocks aptly chimed 
    quarter to analytical cuckoo's nest repudiation, 
  still awaiting on serendipity to surrender 
           furthermost rabbit hole's curiouser rants,
relinquishing unwell-languaged compilations' sabotage - -
      circumventing rhythmically subversive escaped detonation


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Don't Even Ask: Collaboration With Daniel Turner

Have you ever had one of those days 
On the wrong side of the bed, bad days 
When everything right went wrong 

Cause the ding had lost it's dong 
Ouch, Mr. Sun came peeking in 
Up from bed and banged your shin 
Leaky, full toilet overflowed 
Damn, you stubbed your other big toe 

Times like this: don't you love those days 
Hardly anything seems to go your way? 
Is little Johnnie turning green 
Splat! Is that doggie ice cream? 

Gas oven took a dump 
Everyone’s oatmeal was in clumps 
The kids were late AGAIN for school 

Wasn’t that traffic cop a tool? 
Oh, you should've just stayed in bed! 
Rolled back over and called in dead… 
Shoot! An hour late for work 
Emptied Starbucks on your shirt 

Dare you ask how this could get worse? 
Others think you're such a jerk. 
Next, the boss comes barging in 
Tells you,"Look for work again" 

Everything was going wrong 
Vacation's gonna be a little long 
Even your wife’s rope is at an end 
Now she says, "Let's just be friends" 

An asteroid fell from the skies 
Smashed the beer between the thighs 
Kick yourself for getting out of bed

3/24/16
Collaboration with Daniel Turner


Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Inertia

Inertia makes a monster of my
Self
I'm insatiable for making a 
Progress.
Move, don't just tell yourself
You will.
Set the rules, then transgress.
The rebel inside of you deserves
Respect.

You're what you eat, don't
Lick
Your wounds, turn up the heat
By a caress. Love the self-contained
Monster you possess.
Let it off its leash and you'll feel
How it surges in your breast.

It's no place for old men
There is no case without offence
Commitment without intense
Embrace
Is a senile pretence.
To feign 
Amusement  shows lack of respect
For your own self.
Be a rebel, even an iron fist in a velvet
Glove is more wanted
Than just a silly old brat.

Awareness of the 
Inertia makes a monster of my Self
If it didn't I would be suffocating
In a senile caress of my soul's 
Protest.
Life transmutes the mind into
A  monster  who fights against mind's
Recess.


Copyright © Tamara Simic | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Essential Spirits

She was like Bordeaux,
a tall drink of spirit
He was more a hopped
pale lager like Pilsner, 
both gorgeous and
super gingered flavors,
although clashing mid
respective savored aplomb,
one so refined the other
rowdy after hours,
yet they complimented
each other in the way
they blended their
drunken demeanors, 
intoxicated by mere
existence of nature's
essential complexities


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Nothing More or Less

hid insecurities within
  ambiguous humor &
   convoluted whimsies,
rules consistently changing
 in a game which required
hardly more than breath,
  nothing less than obscurity
     twisting a fallible fancy, 
    seizing day's intangibility 


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Floridian Rat

Big armadillo
invading my privacy
you are a leper


Copyright © Ijm seven | Year Posted 2016

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Or Ultimately We All Fall

She was gooey like maple syrup

     & marshmallow s'mores,

stronger than  a mountain lion

    protecting her cubs,

wore prescription rose-tinted 

     sunglasses with GPS,

she'd been around long enough

   to see through most of the 

    negative flimflam and ambiquity, 

was agile enough to laugh at

      her own cheeky caricature,

wouldn't put up with the travesty

   'neath debauchery's cunning

still, she wondered as most do,

  what was to become of a world

so engrossed in the overthrow

    & disparaging mockery of others

she bade her time waiting to grow

    older and wiser in hopes

she'd be around long enough

      to experience a sunrise view 

            in universal accordance

      before her own last sunset

                  ultimately bites the dust,  

         burning in all-inclusive ashes


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Easy Mark


She knew they
were easy marks midst
her beguiling cunning
had it in spades,
they thought they had
the better hand,
stacked the deck in their wager,
til she bet them all
under the round table
with token trick
aces up her skirt,
they didn't realize
she had already gambled
her jacked-up savings,
this was merely a player's
penalty game of suits,
she'd never get beaten
nor shuffled again,
pocketed kill in dealer's turn of a card,
outmaneuvered the joker's clubs
broke the bank's seven-card studs
trumped the king,
walked away the Queen
 decked out in diamonds


Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016

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Crystals Of Starlight

Look up, to see a dome of black velvet,
lavishly set with crystals of starlight.
For as stars confetti infinity,
they loan their flickering lights to the night.

Planet, Mars and Jupiter, share blood red,
as Venus peeks down, through the misty haze.
And Pluto surfs upon the Milky Way,
His elegance, evoking songs of praise.

A pocked faced moon, shining luminous beams, 
smiles happily, as bats go flying by.
And gravity pulls falling stars to earth,
splitting night, in but a blink of an eye.

Dark clouds, smoky purple and ashen grey,
shift hues, like chameleons out to play.


Written May 2, 2017


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hyperbole Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Clanging Echoes


When I’ve gone
to the place
where my fathers’
have gone before me 
and the last tribute
has been paid to my memory,
may my singing words
crack the silence with clanging echoes.

May the clanging echoes
excite starving eyes
and taut wrinkled eardrums—
both to awareness—
guiding them
to actions of liberation
yet to come.

May clanging echoes
wake-up sleeping souls suffering
uncertainties of tyrannical rule,
slobbering from political absurdities, 
drooling from mouths of misguided evil
diagnostic odysseys—peddling false hope
to precariously lost wanderers. 

May my clanging echoes echo ringing
bells of freedom that can’t be unrung:
“Oh death where is thy sting?”
“Oh grave, where is thy victory?”

Poets will die;
but the ringing chords
of their words will live long lives:
Echoing clanging echoes…


Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

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Night of Mystery

The sun was rather hasty--
I might go so far as this;
Because of it, that starry night,
Concluded with a kiss.

And for its misplaced manners--
Its intrusion, if you will;
I have hung the darkest curtains
Just above the window sill.

But should the sun allow it--
One long night of mystery;
I'd pull the curtains down, and smile
For the possibility!


Copyright © Mel Merrill | Year Posted 2014