Long Artlife Poems
Long Artlife Poems. Below are the most popular long Artlife by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Artlife poems by poem length and keyword.
A tear fell, a dream disappered, and hope was lost
The belief that all men are created equal? I question in part
As I dream and write of hope to come my way and dwell in me, but at what cost?
Must I grow cold inside because I find myself lost with no where to turn, a blue heart
I recall my last tear, it fell just a few seconds ago, on this very line
For all my life I have dreamed of a family to call my own
In search of what? I ask myself? Fake joy? For my blood I can't find elsewhere alone
Rare O negative, and I sob at the very thought of my lonesome for all time
A letter once spoke out to my pen, and a message appered in ink unto me
It was hope, it asked me to question my ability, literature is my passion
The words, the lines forming stanzas hug my eyes, caress my soul, it sets me free
I can honestly say, its my obsession
Always trying to fit in
From grade school, and even know, the question is why am I so different
The world judges me of terrible sin
When it itself drowns in tears of the innocent
As an infant I was pushed aside by those whom I thought loved the most just as I was
The pain was greater in the heart, greater than the bloody bruises that became a second shadow
Never experiencing the beauty and meaning of a sencire christmas
Alone, all to my own fake reality, asking the heavens if it all one day would change, tomorrow
I began to write, to fight for love, for a smile to call my own, for a flower
Her petals so fine and full of a beautiful scent
In her color I saw my spirit holding her for a life time standing in loves name like the Eiffel tower
A dream, a vision which is worth it all, and in my life I shall spend
The stars told of her coming, of her smile, of her dimple
It all began by admiring her all, yes its that simple
I will await for her return, yes again for her, but no longer in fear
My flower, she is my tulip, her petals will dry my tears
I love you Paula M. B.- darkpoet.
They walk like zombies...possessed by what they know not
They dream empty dreams...no passion, no desires
I watch from afar...guarded by my safe haven
They all look like movie stars to me...
they move in motions that look scripted to the letter
I pity them, but my pity is useless...wasted on the ones not needing So i watch, wishing i
could extend my hand to help guide them...Yet i fear they would not heed my efforts...
so i cry and pray...my tears form a river they drink from
To feel my pain...i see the banks drying up everyday
How can they fail to hear my roaring waves?
My cries i scream...when they fall they listen not
I'm pained at every moment...they continue on their journey
I sit and close my eyes...the tears carving impressions against my cheeks.
I try to gather power to let my voice scream from my seat...
but to them it's drowned-out by lust, not the love of life that i fought so hard for
I beckon unto them, but they turn their back
I sit, I write...maybe my life can lead them, but they refuse to open the book
I have all my brothers and sisters surrounding me...
lending me their words, but we are silenced at every turn
They have no love for us anymore...we are forgotten,
as forgotten as the sands of time that engulfed us
They just turn it over and start a new...
losing everything we fought hard for
Equalities' dying out with every scar on their soul...
I try to heal the pain, hide the scars, but i'm lost in their past
I find myself searching for an outlet to reach them,
Just to find my efforts are futile
Notwithstanding, i continue to try...
you're all i have...my memory rest in you, and so far i'm fading away
I need your help, need you to remember...need your love,
Need you more now...than a mere blessings' past...
Form:
Without a word - you speak to me through particles of pigmentation
For centuries held within the grip of linseed oil
Where now I gaze upon the many faces that you wore
And their beauty shakes me to the very core
For in each one I see and feel the life you lived
All the different stages - on which you played
Each faze of life - portrayed in raw emotion
So powerfully and brilliantly displayed:
Surprise, confusion, anger and mockery,
Humbleness, arrogance and gaiety
Contentment, resentment, agitation and condemnation
Impatience, sadness, bitterness, and sorrow
And finally resignation all conveyed -
In vibrant shades of autumn leaves
That without a word, so loudly and profoundly - speak to me.
~~~~
Written: July 8, 2011 - 0:03 a.m.
Inspired By Brian Strand’s contest:
POETA -ANY FORM/ THEME max 15 lines
Awarded: 1st Place
~~~~~~
Note from author as taken from Time Life Library of Art:
No artist has left a loftier of more penetrating persoanal testament
than Rembrant van Rijn. In more than 90 portraits of
himself that date from the outset of his career in the 1620's
to the year of his death in 1669, he created an
autobiography in art that is the equal of the finest ever produced
in literature---even of the intimately analytical Confessions of St. Augustine.
If you have to try,
do not bother.
The true writer does not wonder
What would Walt Whitman think
of this line
or this line
Am I not being abstract enough
Do I use well
my literary devices
when he writes delicately
of countryside sunsets
that look like oranges dipped in lemon juice
and life and death
and heaven and hell
encompassed
or when he writes sonnets
with roses
to his begotten love
checking structure, syllables,
iambic pentameter
perfect rhyme scheme
because without all that,
it is no good.
The writer is a man
and a mouse
and a lion
when the occasion calls for it.
He does not live to write
He writes to live
English teachers
will have you thinking differenty
as well as
many best selling authors.
If you got the groove,
you got the groove,
and all you need to do
is to dance, dance, dance.
For, I am that blue-moon madman
with razor eyes
and I dance
and I dance
until the day's life is out of me.
I feel good, like a master,
like a wizard,
like I've done something worthwhile.
After,
I am left with a feeling
of emptiness
like a dead goldfish
as if I had done nothing at all.
Question of me,
vanquishing the existence, arises again.
At times life repeats the horror.
Insufficiency of a heart builds an orphanage,
I play the game, then flounder.
Poison is spreading -
the myth of absurdity overtakes,
truth breaks into splinters
Me and my dialogues with life speak of celebration
in vitro. Taking off the camouflage.
The body prints the friction,
but the descent of dark
and other questions remain unreplied.
The soul suffers in a hole.
All the pretty meanings,
become meaningless when time abstracts,
the stone prevails upon the daisies,
sin and desire go for a reward.
The door does not open,
I put aside the beholder
and give a voice to dead tongue.
Satish Verma