Long Ashamed Poems
Long Ashamed Poems. Below are the most popular long Ashamed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ashamed poems by poem length and keyword.
Naked David is extremely sexy:
oh, how magnificent is his young body!
Was he sculptured to shun shame and deceit?
Should he be dressed accordingly to meet
a certain social code of decency?
Naked David broadly appeals with his attractive traits:
chest, arms, face, glance and mighty warrior legs;
he was chiseled out from a very cold and massive piece
of marble: no soul touched it as if it had a disease!
David's vibrant youth is ever eternal, unlikely ours!
Naked David is the reflection of that innocent age,
his endearing look increases his imposing appearance;
is it embarrassment or a denial of sexuality?
Michelangelo was marveled at its grandiosity:
he created a stunning statue that emanated elegance!
Naked David ignores looks of lurid disgust,
many would cover him up, not only to repel dust;
would he project his angelic beauty to admirers,
and to us who shouldn't be ashamed of our bodies...
that need clothes to hide that specific private part?
The Monarch Who Thought He Was King
Once there was a butterfly
who fluttered by a gate.
The gate was closed, that’s when he said,
“O shucks, now I’ll be late!”
He danced and pranced and shouted
and did not hesitate,
“I demand,” he said with power,
“please, open up this gate!”
To his surprise before his eyes
the gate did open wide.
“A lovely thing; I am the king!
I’m surely qualified.
I had no choice so with my voice
the command I simplified:
‘Just open up this gate!
I need to get inside.’”
He told to all who’d hear him:
“I am the King,” he said.
While some bowed down and listened;
some would not turn their head.
They huffed and puffed and scoffed away,
“We’re sure that you misread.
To open up a gate is easy;
like falling out of bed!”
His shoulders drooped, his forehead sagged;
his eyes filled up with tears,
“You cannot make me less a king
with your scoffing and your sneers.
I am the king,” he fluffed with pride,
“the ruler of my peers.”
Then off he flew without a thought
of all their laughs and jeers.
He fluttered to a purple bush;
the hue fit for a king.
And there he sat to contemplate
and other kingly things.
“I’ll show them all; the small and tall,
and all the scoffs they bring.
A proclamation for my nation:
we’ll hold a royal fling.”
From low and high, from far and near
they gathered close to see
the monarch make his grand command
and show his identity.
A thousand monarch butterflies
watched with frivolity
with five or six ambassadors
from the queendom of the bees.
And there he came with pomp and pride
the self-made king to share
he was a monarch butterfly
and worthy of their care.
He preened his wings and listened for
the sound of his fanfare,
but all he heard was rustling wind
which threw him in the air.
He crashed and tumbled to the floor;
they could not believe their eyes.
The kingdom they had counted on
was built on fibs and lies.
The king was crumpled to the ground
ashamed in his demise.
He let the rain fall down on him
from clouds in the gray skies.
And then he woke up from his nap
and turned inside his bed.
He saw the flowers of his home
of purple, blue, and red.
Right then and there he promised
and to himself he said,
“I’ll be the best of butterflies,
than to be king instead.”
Often made to feel you’re less
Should you care any more?
Can you escape the cruelty,
while occupying your own shore?
People remain unbalanced,
by only seeing you one way.
For their minds travel Straight,
they can’t understand Gay!
The world has moved on,
so kiss guys or kiss girls.
Embrace Straight, Gay, Bisexual
or polyamorous with curls.
Yes, it shouldn’t matter,
love happens between the ears.
Yet sadly all some can do
is label others as Queers.
We each have our own needs
all ashamed and sorta broken.
Fearing what others might discover
elemental desires remain unspoken.
Where you place your bits in private
shouldn’t matter to her him or me
Freely embrace your sensual self,
Holding back is insanity.
So pass me a rainbow flag
To celebrate each one of you.
We can all come together
to support the many and the few.
If I have used any of my descriptors in a way that is offensive please let me know. I am in a state of learning.
Untitled
A million nights in the darkness
Just my thoughts to keep me company
Poems and songs that will never be written
Memories of loves lost decades
Apologizes that I should have made
Changes in my life that never should have happened
Rarely a dream struggles to get through
Dreams that quickly turn into vicious nightmares
Demons ripping into my soul
Despite a billion other souls struggling to survive
No one to hear my screams through the darkness
My past haunts my every moment
Although I am not ashamed of what I have done
I am afraid of what the past holds for me
What the future has to offer
Death and suffering
Pain beyond a mortal's endurance
Loneliness and grief
And maybe a fleeting, rare moment of happiness
Just enough for a second of hope
Then it will be gone
Jesus took my anguish,
When His friends turned away from Him;
So there is no need for me to feel alone.
Jesus took my fears,
In the Garden at Gethsemane;
So fear no longer has any hold over me.
Jesus took my shame,
When He was wrongly accused, stripped and beaten;
So there is no need for me to be ashamed.
Jesus took my pain,
As He bore the lash which tore the flesh from His back,
And by His stripes I am healed;
And He took my death,
As He died on The Cross for the sins of us all;
So death no longer has any claim on me.
He took it all on Himself so God would not turn away from me.
God can't look at sin because it's so filthy.
Sin can't enter Heaven, so neither could I;
But then He was there.
He reached out to me though I was unworthy.
He called me by my name, He knew me,
And He told me not to be afraid ----
Anymore.
"BUT HE WAS WOUNDED FOR OUR TRANSGRESSIONS. HE WAS BRUISED FOR OUR INIQUITIES. THE CHASTISEMENT OF OUR PEACE WAS UPON HIM;
AND BY HIS STRIPES WE ARE HEALED."
Isaiah 53:5
Father,
I am tired of counting my mistakes,
I carry them in my soul
like cracked icons.
From each one a tear seeps out,
and in that tear
gathers
the face I once had.
I have loved without measure,
like a blind man
teaching his hands to see.
I have loved,
and their faces clung to my fingers,
until
I no longer knew who I was.
Sometimes I think that
love
is a sin that smells of holy oil,
a kind of wine poured over a wound
so that light
might be made from pain.
Now, as I write,
it seems to me that poetry is a kind of confession
made to a banished angel,
who weeps for you,
but does not forgive you.
Father,
I am ashamed
that I called You only when I was dying,
and forgot You when I was alive.
Ashamed that I wept in silence,
when I could have laughed with You at the table.
And I miss my mother,
the warm broken bread,
that round light from the village,
where even the dogs know how to pray.
Sometimes I think that You too, Father,
have grown weary of so much watchfulness,
and that I would find You more easily
if I looked for You in an old woman
sleeping on a bench in a train station,
with an apple in her lap and a psalm in her pocket.
I have lived my life between two silences:
one was the world’s,
the other, Yours.
And between them, my heart beat
like a rusted pendulum between guilt and forgiveness.
Perhaps You loved me, Lord,
but didn’t have the courage to say so.
Perhaps You too hid in the rain,
ashamed that we resemble each other so much.
Now I no longer ask for forgiveness,
only to be allowed to live within the poem,
like a forgotten priest in the altar of the world,
who has no believers,
but still serves.
And if one day
You call me by name,
don’t say “come,”
but “you have arrived.”
For I, Father,
in truth,
have never left.
The ocean was as ebony as it had ever been
The moon was ashamed of the situation, so she turned her back
He dragged the seventy-eight-pound bundle to the edge.
A child’s hand flopped out. He quickly looked around, to see if there were watchers.
Putting the heavy bundle into the stolen boat was a chore.
He cursed himself for choosing such an old victim.
Four was usually his limit; this child had been seven.
He rowed halfway to the cove and tossed the remains overboard.
She went down down down down down down down down down.
An empathetic cyber squid followed the progress
Gladly retrieving a glowing sucker
The one he had used to lure the child
I saw you today, maybe
I heard your voice, maybe
I spoke to you surly
May I know more of you;
I pray for you often
First before I pray for myself
I miss seeing you at least daily
I must be out of breath
May I know more of you;
Can I tell God about you;
May I know more of you;
I pray to God that I can do;
I seen you once in pain;
Crying out in Jesus name;
I felt so ashamed, so ashamed;
That I didn't embrace you in your pains;
I saw you today, maybe
I heard your voice, maybe
I spoke to you surly
May I know more of you;
I pray for you often
First before I pray for myself
I miss seeing you at least daily
I must be out of breath
May I know more of you;
Can I tell God about you;
May I know more of you;
I pray to God that I can do;
I saw you today, maybe
I heard your voice, maybe
I spoke to you surly
May I know more of you;
Here I lay as a shadow before you
Of my former self that has been lost forever
They say that time heals all wounds
But not that it doesn't leave scars
See the person that I have now become
And feel ashamed of the damage you caused
Your disbelief makes me feel numb
I can't even be bothered to convince you
Punish me for being the victim
Damage my soul even more then before
Just another consumer of the system
Keeping my eyes trained low to the floor
Death comes swiftly to us all
But to me it couldn't come sooner
As nails pin me here against the wall
And vultures wait in eager anticipation
May curses rain upon the heads of those
Who have amplified my sufferings threefold
Your disbelief is what makes me know
To never trust a soul in this life again
So carry on killing me with disbelief
"Dead leaves lay still, even the last flower is withered: yet there is a beauty in decayed imperfection." Taken from a quote by _Constance La France
On an orbital rotation around our planet every day, nothing stays the same. We change our surroundings change, our thoughts change, constantly evolving into what we are and what we will be tomorrow.
Everything changes. Some things grow bigger or older, some are renewed, restored or replaced, some break or decay. Nothing stays exactly the same. Therefore we are never finished changing. As it was intended, or broken, still nothing is perfect forever. Regrettably Rolls Royce rust.
Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
The old woman replied. ”Didn’t you notice I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
All these beautiful flowers are because of you."
Knowing a fault and making use of it, not alienating the item because of its fault but accentuating it, creates joy.
"When you were perfect, I loved you when you were not, I loved you more.”
The old woman kept the withered pressed bouquet, it’s in a box displayed on the shelf. From their wedding day, glorious red roses, now in decay. She smiles as she remembers its beauty and that of herself.
The flowers she kept, emphasizing their imperfections caused by age, give her joy.
She loved them when they were perfect, their beauty actually means more to her now that they are not perfect, as their remnants have lasted all these years.
All things must be looked upon as spiritually one and of use either aesthetically or practically, (or able to be recycled).