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Long Already Poems

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

When Seeking

When seeking to write
a poem, no need to
descend into deep, dank
mysterious wells of 
creation – after great depth
only to come upon 
one's ignitable soul-fuel

my muse, for example, 
far more accessible, generally
wearing just a glistening
strand of peals, basking
in a warmth of sunlight

for poetry is less the self
making new composition, and 
more a process of internal revelation

one's own essence 
radiating back the lyrics
of a poet's exclamatory spirit

calling up and out
for conscious reunification 
with the Divinity of  
All Declarative Being – 

the celebration of freeing
that which is already
written  – a penetrable 
gazing crystal entrancing 
artful nature into greater
self-awareness – 

hidden truth distilled in 
each vein long before 
the tea and patterned reading

the poet first learns release
if to learn poetry; begins 
by turning those internal whispers
into clear explorable volumes

slicing open, and peeling back 
the skins of words, shattering 
shells, releasing flocks of
phrases and images, making
yoke-leftovers into omelets 
stuffed with eclectic tastes for
sharing

one writes to consume

and be consumed – 

poetry, a sacred ceremony of life and death~

the poet his own baptizing priest while cold 
handed embalmer.

inspirationalintrospectionliteraturepoetrypoets

Form: Free verse

Before the first name

Not from theorem or throne
did it begin,
but from a shiver
that did not yet know it was afraid.

A tightening in the dark.
A bruise in the silence.
Something leaned toward something else
without language,
without permission.

The deep did not speak.
It listened.

In that listening
hands were already imagined,
cupped, empty,
waiting for warmth that had not yet learned its own weight.

The first fire did not blaze.
It remembered.
It remembered a body
that had never been broken
and a hunger that would one day ache
for bread, for skin, for return.

Out of the long unlit waters
rose no god crowned in certainty,
but a tremor
that would later become a child
crying into air too wide for its lungs.

And the stars came
not as architects
but as witnesses,
leaning close,
burning with the patience of those
who know they will outlast every funeral
and still grieve.

The origin was not clean.
It was wet.
It was crowded.
It throbbed with near-misses and almosts,
with forms that tried and failed
and tried again,
because failure had not yet learned shame.

Bones were rehearsed
in the memory of waves.
Blood practiced its color
in iron tides.
Eyes learned darkness
before they ever learned light.

And when at last a voice rose
from the long labor of matter,
it did not ask,
Why am I?
It asked,
Where are the others?

So the universe bent,
not toward perfection,
but toward company.

Even now,
when we bury our dead
under names that erode like cliffs,
the origin does not retreat.
It kneels with us.

It is in the warmth
left on an empty pillow.
In the way hands linger
after letting go.
In the breath that stutters,
then continues,
out of stubborn love.

No final silence owns us.
No ending seals the source.

What began as a trembling
still moves through our ribs,
and what was born without certainty
refuses extinction.

The first darkness
still remembers us.
And we,
broken, brief,
carry it forward
each time we choose
to touch,
to speak,
to stay.

creationlifememorywisdom

Form: Free verse

Facing the Truth

The older I get the easier it is to face the truth
Because the aspiration to change
Who I really am has run out of oomph.

And so what is the truth of who I really am?
That I am basically lazy without much interest 
In doing anything new or following through 
And finishing what I already started.

What I already started includes lots of stuff
But of course applies to Life in general
Since that’s the very first thing I already started.

But somewhere in there is also the wisdom
That finally accepts entropy and inertia
As the fundamental truth 
Of my existence.

Are there other truths in my life?
Of course, but they are all just relative
Temporary and fleeting.

(10/27/25)

ageintrospectionlifetruth

Form: Narrative

At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.

12th grade

Form: Free verse

Me and My Dad

We went for a drive 
Me and my dad
We were so happy, we were so glad
We rent a boat, stay at the lake
We met my dads friend
His name was Jake
We swam, we fish, had fun to play
On that one summer, very hot day

On the way back we stop at the park
When we drove home was already dark
We were talking and laughing
Me and my dad
We had such a great time
When suddenly he said ... my son, hold on ....

I lost my father that awful night
I don’t remember very much
The other car struck us head on
And after that my father was... gone
We will never have our time ever again
Me and my dad
I grew up to be angry 
I grew up to be very sad 
I didn’t know any better, I guess
I made my life completely mess

And then, out of the blue
I was in love with a girl named Sue
Her Angel’s face and those brown eyes
I would follow her to a paradise

Few years went by, one day I see
Those tiny eyes looking at me
I felt my heart, what have I done?
In my arms, I was holding
My beautiful .... son......

I was a dad, I felt so blessed
I knew I found my family nest
I know one day we will have fun
Me, as a dad and my beautiful son

dadimaginationson

Form: Dramatic Verse