Confession Poems - Poems about Confession

The sun shone in bewilderment, Scornfully it scorch, As Rose plead her fifth amendment, Her good nature made a strife, Lea smirk in disdain , Saith her world has ended. Twice fairer than Lea, In Lea heart lies deceit, She whispers in Rose ear, Come and sit, where Serpent hisses, I will smother thee with kisses, Honey lies secrets not known, In Lea lives the honey. Thrice shy,...

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I am a perennial winner Cause I refuse to be a loser I am programmed for victory And I vehemently refuse to walk by sight Nor by what my circumstances look like For what is seen is temporary I refuse to allow my situation To dictate the direction of my prayer or confession For I can not...

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I learned what I fear today: Intimacy. I can’t seem to face my raw emotions bluntly; in fact I despise them for being unpoetic Why be vulgar and direct when I can hide behind my metaphors, my harbor; my fantasies, my buffer—between reality and my brain cells too proud to be seen scattered, sprinkled all over— well, nothing Even this moment I struggle to simply write:...

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His confession: He used to have an obsession... He saw her as a shining superstar, and believed she was good, not bad; The infatuation he had nearly drove him mad. When he opened his eyes and looked inside He found it wasn't as beautiful as the outside, Once he discovered who she truly was she didn't seem the same to him anymore. Admittedly, he was...

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As I lay in the dark with my head about to explode All the thoughts still stir in my mind The ones I try to be ride of...leave mostly behind Like the chronic pain in my skull that never ceases to exist You linger there like a crown of thorns digging deep into me with your pointed...

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As I lay in the dark with my head about to explode All the thoughts still stir in my mind The ones I try to be ride of...leave mostly behind Like the chronic pain in my skull that never ceases to exist You linger there like a crown of thorns digging deep into me with your pointed...

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they wheeled me in like a busted fridge metal bolts, the stink of bleach my hands were calm for once— you'd think I'd scream, but I'd already done all my screaming. a priest mumbled junk at me— I asked for a cigarette, he gave me god instead. the guards were kids shaking like leaves they strapped me tight like I was gonna run. I looked at the...

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I give up writing the ‘great American poem’… started after college in my garage but it was all...

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To soften his adolescent growing pains he was encouraged (can’t recall by whom) to take up painting – to make a name for himself, they said. When that failed, and miserably, he took up drinking which he likened not to a godsend, rather to a bodily need and calling. And so it was, for in little time he...

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how can heartless conjure magic meant to be bled by a broken heart? A/N: For the Monoku contest Why I Abhor AI Generated Poems....

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Two plus two is four In the book of Leviticus It's hard to ignore Just in reading you begin to explore Those little details that belong to the Lord They say you find Jesus on every page of the bible But little do they mention the names of His rivals It's very important and for our survival That we pay close attention to...

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1. The Scriptures shine, God-breathed and pure, 2. One triune God, eternal and sure. 3. The Father reigns, Creator above, 4. The Son, our Savior, full of grace and love. 5. The Spirit proceeds, giving life and light, 6. Humankind fallen, lost from God’s sight. 7. Salvation is grace,...

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Everyone reads what I write, Except the one it’s meant for. She never do. She never will. And I ask myself, Do these words mean anything, Or are they just a lullaby For a heart that forgot how to sleep? Maybe I write to lie, To pretend silence was a choice, Not a sentence carved into me. I stitched my mouth shut With thread made of shame, The...

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My soul’s confession knows no ordinary penance—nor knows, nor feels, another mind the nebulating sorrows therein maligned—. I doubt my own can judge the cemetery of bygone thoughts, dead dreams, and funerary pathways—twisted in patterns twice entwined through one and another—lurking behind my steeple-belled conscience. On the contrary, sermon is held just out of sight of that sinister scene. By holy spirits...

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I. The Hour of Approach The poem I was writing refused to end— it kept writing me. Blood didn't ink these lines— the ink bled me. Each stanza a hidden-hematoma across the white of nothingness. Somewhere, midnight faltered, and I was no longer alone. II. Visitation: Sylvia Plath Sivvy came barefoot, bees orbiting...

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