Long Basement Poems
Long Basement Poems. Below are the most popular long Basement by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Basement poems by poem length and keyword.
I still remember the day you stole my innocence away.
The world shifted—
colors drained from golden light to endless shadow.
It started as a simple conversation,
slowly pulling me down to your basement.
I was only 13 years old
when you left me to walk home on shaking legs.
At first, I thought I deserved it—
because fear stole my words before I could speak.
You stole my voice, my innocence, my dignity, leaving me with nothing but fragments of myself.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse,
it did.
Another man used his hands,
leaving me with bruises and broken ribs.
He said it was because "he could."
But my story didn’t end there—
I would never allow it.
I was left with scars, but never silence.
I am a survivor, not a coward.
The alarm interrupted my sleep with the urgency of lust
or sudden inheritance - only to end up being neither.
“Alexa, good morning,” I say, as I stretch. My room lights illuminate - in red mode - like a submarine lit for night routine and my Keurig springs to life.
How could someone living my dull, slow, academic life be so walking-dead tired in the morning? After all I got - trying to focus on my tiny Apple watch - 4 hours sleep. I rubbed my dry eyes and auroras traveled across my lids.
When I pull open my drapes, all I see is a waning moon suggesting light to a dark world. I step around abandoned clothes, lying where they fell like soldiers.
Aggk! I recoil when I see a three-day-old corpse in the mirror.
Ugh, gross, I fell asleep wearing my facial detox mask.
My clock reads 5:40am. I whisper to my AI, “Alexa, what’s today’s forecast?” “Currently, It’s 21°, today will be sunny with a high of 27°” she whispers back.
In a moment of non assignment related forethought, while tooth brushing, I strip my pillowcase, tossing it on a pile of dirty clothes next to the full hamper of equally dirty clothes.
MattyBRaps begins throbbing “Little Bit” in the room next door. That means Leong’s awake - she’s obsessed with a 15 year old boy-singer on YouTube.
I wiggle into my spandex, grab my iPad and water bottle, then head down to the basement gym. I can replay my chemistry class while walking on the treadmill.
Good morning.
Four Cafe’s
It was post digestion time, 10pm ! uncomfortable bloating causing a staggering stand,supported by the apartment windows brass clasp, the torn green velvet digestion chair lilted just beneath. Nested above the Canal Madeline, perched in a loft atop hundreds of lonely books, which i have not browsed ! their prison the De Krook. Afar beyond the cracked glass, out into the January month night, wildly dancing snowflakes cause a cataract pin pointed view of the culprit of indigestion
“ Cafe Croix de Fer”!
Along the frozen cobbles, Ale fuelled, in-firms trudge and trip precariously, fuelled “by many Trappist brews” towards “ Cafe Le repaire des ames perdues” I myself, visit this lair to regularly, its chestnut doors, spit tainted in past blood, open 24 hrs per day 364 days each year , “ No ! The one day is not Noel ! Its Cask day “ And, on this one day, i visit " Cafe Noir"
My tipple of choice is a hand of cards ! held in gloves tattered and fingerless. This addiction to be found in the basement of the Library, a Cafe,174 worn steps below me, name “ Enfer” my light purse, confirms this.
Count.
Erase The Human Race
With one empty space
I can erase the human race
From the daze of the gray haze
When the days create the case
For an ironic song of wrongly structured
Verbs where every line is on the curb
With one solitary tap of the keyboard
I can record morbid and sordid chords
Abhorred by the hordes of lords
Who were painted so high on the fly
Like false dimes in time to rhyme
On the memory of a fallen poet
And we could surely blow it
We all know it
With one line we define our humanity
On the pages of insanity
Locked in the basement of vanity
Our fingers feverishly fingering
A fake falsetto
Over orange skies
Like flies we flock to the newest thing
Which brings us to sing of rings and bling
While we fling the wings of the king
The keys are falling all around
Found and bound and bounced
And flaunted by the haunted and daunted
Who thought they could do the right thing
When the fight tonight on this moonlight sonata
Could bring the end to our technological structure
It's with one empty space
That I can erase the human race
I had a silly thought.
What if my parents…
Locked me in the basement?
It doesn’t make sense, because that’s illegal!
It doesn’t make sense because they are supposed to love me.
What I imagined was them thinking I should just sit on a shelf for the rest of my life.
Because all I do is sit in my room anyway.
My life depreciating in value, while I sit silently.
I wouldn’t scream, I wouldn’t panic.
Because that makes them annoyed,
And I already annoyed them.
So my therapist,
She was more reasonable.
Smiling in that concerned way.
Trying to explain that the door doesn’t even have a lock,
Trying to explain the lack of logistics to locking me up like that.
Locks, keys, and turning the lock.
My parents’ turn to speak in that way that is like an intervention.
Looking back and forth, trying to decipher what they are saying, or even who is speaking.
Looking at their mouths, which is they key to understanding their words.
It is my turn to speak.
To make my case against confinement.
I feel mousy, and can’t hear myself.
But they can hear me through the energy and vibrations.
That’s it! Times up!
It’s time to go home.
Which will be underground.
It’s time to go home.
It’s time to go to my new home.
“What is Past is Prologue.”
The Tempest.
It's the young ghosts that
haunt us most.
A vison of my 6-year-old self,
looking up from a basement window
at the gray pavement above my head.
It scared me then and still does.
One dead-eyed day in a wintery city
I saw a man without a coat
crouched and shivering,
the coat that he did not wear that day
I wore at that time.
The more I looked, the more I understood.
Such younger ghosts are spectral preludes,
phantoms of our psyche,
sealed into a setting, just large enough
for them to relive forever
a one-act play
of our soul-etched moments.
The church ladies had a head committee that met at tables.
They started out at houses – Lee’s, Annabelle and Mable’s.
But eventually they returned to the church to snip and chat.
The young minister ran past them as they chewed the fat.
They liked to over plan, to negotiate, to argue and fuss.
They could easily get into a confrontation with no muss.
They wore casual clothes, but dresses, of course.
Sometimes the young one, Naomi, rode in on her horse.
The basement of the church is where they would convene.
In other rooms, these stalwart planners were rarely seen.
They were a tight group, and they discussed the rest.
They were the gossip gals, and truly some of the best.
Long after these ladies had gone to the pearly gates
The chairs they once used fell out of their crates.
Forming a circle in their meeting room, no kind of dreaming.
The elderly minister was spooked, ran out screaming.
Rising up is how he finally found rock bottom
Most people's basement was his ceiling not their floor
Temptation draws a man into the darkness of his soul
While his past plays like a record, his hope lies at the core
He found the inspiration that he needed
With her love he knew he'd finally found the call
That answered all the questions, that kept playing on his mind
He knew he'd have to finally make, the rise before the fall
How did Heaven find him in this hell he wondered
And how's an angel make him fly without some wings
The demons he once carried, built the walls around his heart
They've all been razed, and he's amazed, cause now his slate is clean
He found the inspiration that he needed
With her love he knew he'd finally found the call
Like a house of cards still crumbles in its silence
He knew he'd have to finally make, the rise before the fall
Feelings unlike a bottle can't be placed back on a shelf
And soon his faith and happiness had been restored
Like a mountain rises from the deepest ocean
Where love once was a ceiling the sky is now the floor
And he found the inspiration that he needed
And he can thank the fall for rising from his depths
Love proves to span the great divide, that's found between two hearts
Building bridges that will never burn, that only love can manifest
Building bridges that will never burn that only love can manifest....
There was a trouble-maker, a cute tyke.
You know the type! He had a little trike.
Perhaps his name was like the cartoon “Dennis.”
To everyone he met, he was a menace.
He asked his mother for a bag and went
into the basement. Webs on the cement
were also on the walls and everywhere.
Mom never had it sprayed for insects there.
It took him quite a while, but quite a lot
of spiders in that small bag Dennis got.
He also went outside to find some more.
It took him all day. What was it all for?
He hated school, but most of all, one teacher
who taught biology like she were a preacher.
Her droning on and on made Dennis sick.
To make him even hate bugs – what a trick!
The coming lesson would be spider-filled.
On that teacher’s desk, the young lad spilled
his bag of spiders when her back was turned.
The F he got was the funnest that he’d ever earned!
Have you been
Hiking the Quiraing trail on the isle of Skye?
watching golden eagles as they fly by?
Have you been
Hiking through fields of paintbrush on Mount Hood?
From Trillium Lake to Timberline, if you haven't you should.
Have you been
Pushing a frontier, discovering the new
Being all you can be, pursuing every clue?
Have you been
Locked in a small box on a Sandinista command?
They call it a Casita because there's no room to stand.
Have you been
Found dead in a Gulag before you might have been traded
For a Russian hitman, now all hope faded.
Have you been
Imprisoned by the scheming of one man's small mind
wings clipped, hemmed in, and confined?
Have you been
Locked up for ten years in Ariel Castro's basement
Chained, beaten, having ten years wasted?
Have you been
In solitary confinement for a year, because you protested fraud
In a D.C. jail, rights trampled roughshod.
Have you been
Dying with no friends left, in a hospice bed
Your sons think you are unaware, but you're all there, not yet dead.
Have you been
Dreaming at your desk, with your eyes wide open?
Looking for space, wishing for time to surf life's ocean?