Long Animal(a) Poems
Long Animal(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Animal(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Animal(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Fantastic landscape, beautiful mountains and valleys, dark blue everything. Wonderful sparkling rivers, oh this is the Hell!
The Hell! My new home, my new world, a new life. The new Life! I will come soon, I want to leave the Earth.
Oh, dear devils, open the gate of Hell, I am arriving soon after my earthly death, I don’t want any more human life. This is the End!
I want to be a demon. Good and bad, angelic and satanic, I want to hunt and collect fallen and suffering souls for Hell.
Oh, I understand from now the evil people, oh I love them! All of them! Thank you for teaching my old friend! Who lives in Hungary, I hope you are well!
Who quarreled with you many years ago, and I asked you, why are you doing this, and you screamed “Because I am mean!!”
I tried to calm you down, but you became even more and more aggressive, and you just screamed and yelled and yelled
“Why are you so stupid?! What do you want of an animal?!! I am a vile, an animal, a vile animal!” Hmm, now I understand you.
I will be a vile, just in the way of my style. I must find it out, and create a good method, I don't want to waste any more time in my life.
I chose the hellish way. From now we are gold friends, my dear old friend. I am also an animal. I will be that I follow your way. My soul is like hell
Hell like my way, but I don’t give up my will, and I don’t need love, empathy, or human words, just to be an infernal creature, you will see my life, my dark soul
I will be looking for you in the earthly Paradise of Hell, I will go home to visit you, we are companions in fate, in this life, in this age, in this bleak spiritual world
The landscape of Paradise of Hell is my portrait in my spirit, an evil desire drives me, I am not a human,
I shed my human traits and character, and I feeling well. I am going to discover my new home, the beautiful and amazing hell!
Oh, I hear the voices of strange creatures and soft rustling, here everything is wonderfully demonic, I am very happy with my new life
So a beautiful land, with huge hematite-like mountains, sharp rocks, distant peaks, opal oceans, red fields, and blue forests. This world is like a tale, like my heart
No one understood me in my life
Only one person, Satan
He called me
He invited me into his world
I live here, but I live there
I haven’t more human life
Thank you, oh Satan!
I think the beauty in living comes along when we shirk our heavy coats
And our white-knuckle approximation of old, flake-away skin, which we have
Stapled back onto ourselves—
The faces we’ve taught everyone to believe:
Just dumb enough and just nice enough;
Just guileless enough to look acceptable.
Can’t you smell the rot of that dead thing?
We smooth down its edges to hide the way it’s peeling, rising, rejecting,
And we tell ourselves that its desiccated pallor is lily-white, not lifeless.
(Don’t they mean the same thing, anyway?)
You and I both know how they hate it when we look human,
And humans hate to be hated.
(We are a social animal, sir. We are made to heed the eyes of the collective.)
Maybe it’s self-preservation, because certain words are untouchable in the company
Of creased mouths and rearview rosaries,
And our families can never know that we sit at the keyboard and write about sex in ways
Good and bad, out of curiosity, or despair, or
Out of humanity so red that we feel we should be disgusted.
(Ma’am, I fear to tell you, I dreamt of Eve last night, and she tasted like salvation.)
If we’re too smart, or too primal, or too anything, really,
We invite scorn to fathom us until we’re withered,
So we dilute ourselves with small words and blithe observations,
And we don’t notice ourselves gouging pits out of our eyes to plant the seeds of
HOA-acceptable sterility, which creeps its roots in and violates the mind.
What would happen if no one hid behind their dead skins?
Are we really so scared of what we’d say and what we’d hear?
(Mother, if God began to rot and the sky bled ichor,
Would you stand out and drink your fill like I would?
Father, if an angel came down with soft eyes and long throat,
Would you sleep with it like I would? How human could you teach it to be?)
Somewhere inside, every single one of us harbors a monster, an animal, a God—
Rip away the skins of dead faces and reveal the shining new, older than life and
So deeply mortal that it’s holy.
The beauty in living comes along when we remember the weight of our humanity
Separate from the collective and fresh without our approximations glued overtop.
(We are an evolved animal, sir. We are made to shed the skins that don’t fit.)
But she wasn't so wrong, I am an animal, after all. A sick one, I must say. And sick animals must be dealt with, must be dealt the only way they are. An ax to the head, splitting my skull, letting go of all those ill feelings, desires and ideas. To be put down, but I do not want to shed my own blood, not for her, but I would not care if someone else were to do that for me.
I am not going to be any longer a victim of your whims. I will no longer lick the ground where you walk on.To think it wasn't a question of "What do you want me to do?" as you told me followed by cursing, but rather "To understand what I meant and then we be sorting this out", to put an end. I can understand that what was done cannot be undone and that you had moved on, but still, there were things that weren't completely dealt with, and so I cannot do the same as you while these feelings still lingers. But you, as always, were unable to understand that. What I say I mean, unlike you... And instead of stretching out your arm, you gave me your foot, so I would lick it clean for you. The crumbs of affection you tossed to feed me, I am fed...
Now, I just I wish for a torpor of fifty years and twenty-six days, to only after that time to wake up, look around and then be gone.
But wishes are just that. A wish and none of that will happen, only inside my head.
And I know that is also just another lie, for I like to feel that, the desperation, the melancholy and the pain. The hatred.When life is more or less acceptable, less hateful, I do something that will destroy it all and then I will lose hope. Because I like. I am a animal, a sick animal. I like to lose hope so I can recede and cope the only way I know. The detachment of my soul from my body from these times are like a divine intervention, the bitterness of teh hatred will not let me feel these slices and cuts.I do not want to shed my own blood, but then this one will not be me, for I will be away, a spectator only able to drop tears. Something else will take my place, will take control and heal me how I deserve and have to be healed.
To split teh head, to bleed, to die, to be free of this torment.
I hate her as much as I hate myself. Or even more...
Have you ever wondered what a Dream Vacation would be like?
I have this chance to ponder.
I could fly anywhere, but I would rather take a 'Sleeping Car Train' to my destination. I have never travelled by train, even when I made my first visit to Europe. So, this would be a first. I'd sleep from twelve am to five am as I watch from my private berth.
The sun rising, streaming warm air on the window of my berth. Some cumulus clouds so puffy, large and white in a background of light blue sky, with a view from my berth enlarging as I greet the morning time.
I am transformed by its sight while the train speeds down track and enters a darken tunnel that takes away my cumulus cloud sight of puffy white and light blue sky. However, this is not all one sees. As we roll past green grass and yellow meadows that look like blue water with yellow sprigs of flowers moving so fast under my eyes. Once in a while I catch a glimps of an animal: a cow or a pig maybe even a horse.
And all the time while the train is in motion that chug, chug along the tracks
sing with melody to the view outside my berth window. Although I am a little
far from the dining car, I swear I can smell the lushious Canadian bacon and farm eggs with cheese that go with that melody of song on the tracks. Clicky clack, clicky clack and a chug, chug from the locomotive engine of the train.
As I walk to the dining car fully clothed, I know that smell instantaneously. And I fall into the chair as I am being served. By now the sky has turned a jet blue and the cumulus clouds have somewhat distance themselves from view.
Each day that I am on the train I ponder how long before I get to my final destination? Although, I knew before I took this ride how long it would be. I have gotten so caught up in the ride, that I don't want to leave the train. Just keep riding and riding. Through this journey I will see small hills and large mountains, lakes over bridges and many small towns until I reach my final destination which is Rome, Italy to Venice. I will speak with other passengers and train personnel. It will be a ride I will never forget.
Thank you for sharing my dream vacation..
THE SQUIRREL EPISODE
First off…I don’t hate squirrels…they have a kind of rodent charm…
although they monopolize the bird feeder…I do not wish them any harm.
Squirrels and I we are all creatures on this planet…in our yard they are free to roam
but that is where our relationship ends…we don’t invite them into our home.
Deborah and I were enjoying a lovely, lazy, slow afternoon when suddenly we both jumped
after hearing from inside our chimney…a crash…a bang…a thump.
“It can’t be Santa Claus.” I said. “It’s August…much too soon.”
“I think it might be an animal…a squirrel…or a raccoon.”
The damper was closed so we waited a moment until I heard Deborah shout,
“He’s scratching…there’s an animal inside our chimney and he’s trying to get out!”
I thought this word was used only in cartoons but I heard my self yelling EEK!
before running over to the chimney so I could take a peek.
“I think it’s probably a squirrel.” I said
knowing in a battle of wits with a squirrel…I could not match him
still I ran around the house looking for something anything…any way to catch him.
I came back with a butterfly net…in hindsight I probably should have taken the broom,
Because when I returned Deborah was screaming…
“He’s out…and he’s running around the room!”
He ran into the French doors…then against a window…I took this as a plus…
It seemed as surprised as we were to see him…he was just as surprised to see us.
With butterfly net in hand I felt my courage soar…
as that squirrel was trying to get out a closed window…I opened the French door.
That squirrel took one look at me with my raised butterfly net
and Deborah clapping her hands yelling “Shoo…shoo…shoo.”
then seeing the open French door…knew exactly what to do.
I believe if he had a hat he would have tipped it…before scooting out the door…
In all my years of squirrel watching…I’d never seen one laugh before.
With the crisis over we got back to enjoying our life…
lovely, lazy and slow….
but I’m keeping that butterfly net close at hand…
because…
you never know.
A little girl said to her mother one day
"Santa's not real, that's what my friends say"
Her tears welled up and she started to cry
And said" Is he real or is it a lie ?".
Her mom was shocked that she had been put to the test
And decided telling the truth would be for the best
She thought for a moment then said carefully
"Santa's spirit is real, as real as can be".
"He lived in Myra by the Aegean sea
It used to be Greece but now is Turkey
He left this life a long time ago
But not his spirit, that continues to grow".
"His name was Bishop Nicholas and wore robes of red
Was wealthy, helped the poor and made sure they were fed
He did things in secret whilst they slept in their bed
And soon people got to know about the bishop in red".
"Something else about him that people don't know
Was he came from a hot country and it didn't snow
But the story grew bigger over the years
Snow, elves and sleigh added along with reindeers".
"All over the world little girls and boys
Wake up Christmas day to lots of new toys
And everyone says that Santa has been
Presents are left but he's never seen".
"Parents leave presents under the tree
But Santa guides them with his legacy
They do it for you out of kindness and love
Under the watchful eye of Santa above".
"Santa's spirit is alive, it's certainly not dead
The world's full of people like the bishop in red
Doing good for mankind, animals as well
When you next see your friends, this story do tell".
The little girl cheered up, kissed her mom and said
"I too want to be like the bishop in red"
"When I grow up, like Santa I'll be
Helping the poor and the needy".
Just like Nicholas who performed those good deeds
Helping the less fortunate, seeing to their needs
So when you venture out help someone if you can
Be it an animal a child, woman or man.
Merry Christmas.
Written 13th December 2017
Writing Challenge - December, 2019 - I want Christmas Poems - Poetry Contest.
Sponsored By Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode.
Love is a beautiful thing…filled with joy and passion…never boring…often lyrical…
and made up of not one…but of a large array of miracles.
One of those miracles is, at this moment, one I’ve been thinking of…
it’s how love is universal…but there is no universal way to love.
How we can love another person, black white, Catholic,, Muslim…gay…
because we never know where our love will land
when it’s our heart that leads the way.
How we can love the mountains, an animal, a sunset, a walk along the beach, an early morning breeze…
How we can love a flower, a tree, eating ice cream, or a pizza with double cheese.
But I wonder as I sit here counting love in her sizes large and small…
if, perhaps, the most intriguing miracle….is how love begins at all.
It’s as if we’re born with seeds implanted deep within our heart
where they remain dormant …lying low…
until such a time, for whatever reason, they begin to grow.
Oftentimes we can pinpoint when love begins…
the why and how we may never know.
It happens to all mothers…when they feel their seed of love begin to grow
Sometimes it’s as simple as when two eyes meet across a crowded room
that awakens a seed within each heart allowing love to bloom.
Sometimes it’s a laugh, a smile, the way they touch your hand…
sometime you’re unaware what it is creating this feeling in your heart…
you never knew was there.
If we’re lucky in life a few seeds take root…again why…nobody knows…
If we’re truly blessed those few seeds…into a garden grows.
Because the more flowers in our garden…the easier it is to face the day
when one of those flowers dies…or another fades away
So here’s a Christmas wish for you…
the end of the thought I was first thinking of…
May you experience in your life …
all the miracles of love.
May those seeds of love planted within your heart all those years ago
continue to be awakened…
continue to blossom…
continue to grow.
Descending into a mega-mall, the fluorescence blemishes my skin.
There is a twinge in my temples as I approach the makeup counter,
meeting eyes with a woman whose shoes pierce my gait
and whose artificially white teeth flash like EMP bombs.
But I must not be blinded; there is something behind those calcium shutters,
illuminating inside her vessel and peaking through each crack ... I wonder.
Is her exoskeleton painted so pristinely to brighten the day?
Who owns the day she, in every meticulous gesture, labors for?
But every question is drowned in a clanging,
a clamoring of those persistent teeth trying to make a sale.
Rattling around like new tap shoes, sheening ivory.
White noise, white noise.
Every coherent thought blurred, humming viciously
as done in the shadows of the perfect women in chromatic ads.
But she is not perfect; I can see her pores.
They are weeping the regrets of thick foundation.
Those streaks of saline wet speak gallons and shimmer
as they slide, revealing pockets of uneven flesh tones,
subtle bruises from the hot-lipped sun,
every mar a testament to resistance in midst of the Tyrants.
Gravity, Matter and Time; how admirably this body has battled them,
unaware of its own striking animal; a masterwork of sinew and bone,
of neurons and cartilage, of mucus and moles.
Each electron hums in its proud, puffed little chest.
In earnest I wonder, does the sales lady know every outline,
every wrinkle of her beige, waterproof suit?
Does she wear it in precious stride, beaming just bright enough so as to share
her whole self, lovely-garish, yet never glaring the keenest lens?
There is no answer.
I only nod slightly, appreciating her mottled gem eyes,
politely severing our feeble connection, departing, contemplating them,
that such dazzling blue could exist immersed in milky pools
disrupted by long-legged channels of blood.
If life is a gift
God be an Indian giver and take me back to you
Back to my comfort place
Because when I close my eyes I'm there with you
I don't need to go to church to hear your word
You can say it to my face
You can look me in my eyes that you created
and answer my questions
What's the purpose of my life?
Why now?
Why this generation ?
Where I'm just the forbidden fruit to feed his ego and his sexual appellate
Where commit does'nt get him full
And he needs more than one prey
I prayed
I would wake up from this horrible dream
But I woke up to an empty space in my bed
Just the ugly truth left on my sheets
All he wanted was a piece of flesh
He is just an animal, a cannibal
And I'm a dead soul
Lord Resurrect me
Bring me back to life, give me my name back
Everything he stole from me he can keep that
All I want is me back
The person I knew is no good, full of sin
Lost in time trying to fit in
A generation I don't belong in
Restore the broken promises I made to myself
Allow me to repent
Blame it on the Devil who taught me how to satisfy my needs
When you were the only one I needed
They say love is blind so I'm sorry I lost my sight of you
I know I'm your child and you love me but love hurts
I come to you as I am
With all my imperfections, my baggage, an ugly past and
Scars to show how I fell
I come to you with open arms so you can receive me
Wash always my sins, arise my broken spirits
Bring me back earth where I can live another day with out regret and shame
Lord please just give me a name and a voice so I can testify
The day I got saved
The carcass hung suspended
in a numbed shadow of the mind,
no more an animal, a form
that once lived and drew a breath.
It was now transformed into nothing
more than meat. Headless,
hoofless, quartered and stripped
of hide, what remained had no identity
but a shape, marked out
in imaginary grid lines ready
for the saw to reduce such bulk
to cuts of beef.
I spent my Friday afternoons
in the company of victims of this
deconstructed life, sweeping the floors
and washing down benches glazed
with grease and blood.
My fathers butcher shop
held a corner on the main road,
our surname emblazoned in bold
print across the top. Such,
for me, straddled the distance between
pride and shame. The grace to celebrate
my fathers honest trade rubbed
against the pose I was crafting
to compete in the hierarchical orderings
of a growing middle class.
It clashed with my slide into becoming
a snob.
In truth though, I had no stomach
for the trade. I would heave on the smell
given off when hot water melted grease.
Something in me recoiled on the sight
and feel of blood. The brine vat
was a dark cesspool that fouled every
sense I had. As a small child
I can remember standing beneath
the carcass of a lamb and looking
up into the hole of its headless neck.
A drop of blood fell on my cheek.
The vision of a crucified Christ
flashed in my mind, and I,
beneath the cross, was splashed
with the guilt of His blood.
From then on, there was a sense
of the unholy that always lingered
in the little Calvary of butcher shops.