Long Beat up Poems
Long Beat up Poems. Below are the most popular long Beat up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beat up poems by poem length and keyword.
(This is a fictional poem)
I've encountered road rage over eighty times.
My driving is so horrible that it's a crime.
I totaled a car after driving when it snowed.
I'm such a lousy driver that I drive on the left side of the road.
When I drive at night, my chances of wrecking are increased.
I once hit a car that belonged to a priest.
I thought the priest would be forgiving and I thought I was home free.
But he pulled me out of my car and beat the crap out of me.
I practically invented road rage and I encounter it again and again.
This gray wig I've started wearing makes people less likely to hit me because
they think I'm a senior citizen.
I've been cussed out, beat up, and once I was even shot.
If you drive like me, get off the road because you don't want what I got.
Form:
Hey babe, we're gonna go far.
All 'cause I am tried of working
for the man's with smelly Cuban
Imported cigars. He must honestly
spend a small fortune on them.
We've been living much too long
on the far side of town. Living
on the other side of rail road
tracks. Hearing their lonesome
whistle blowing loud as can be.
Hey love, your old man really knows
how to make a fast buck.
He does not go traveling
in in a beat up old blue
pick up Chevy truck!
Struggling really hard just
trying to make both ends meet.
Wondering and worrying about
paying the rent before all of
our meager money has been spent.
And we both wind up living on the streets.
Hey babe, I know your old man
really knows how to make the
scene driving around in his female chauffer's
driven black limousine. Reading
The New York Times and the Wall
Street Journal and Newsweek every day.
Hey babe, I even did hear about
your old man making the front
cover as Time Magazine's
Man of the Year.
Hey Chickee, your old man really
has all of the money changers
beat. 'Cause he is known and
loved, "As the Wolf of Wall Street.
And hey girl, I did want to make you
cry, we've always someone managed
to barely get by. Some day, our boat's
going to come in! I just wish I only
knew both how and when!
Love as always,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 24, 2020
As an imperfect man who is journeying towards a better version of himself
A man who is not strong because of his strength but willingness to push through his brokenness
An individual who will continue to mess up so please know my love is not perfect but rather a work in progress
I'm not making excuses; I'm trying to tell the truth
Too many misunderstand what I love you is
So, when I say that phrase to you as much as I can fit it within our remaining time to feel...
I'm saying my love is all I really have because no amount of anything could ever replace it
My love is broken but that means there is room for it to heal, to become stronger, and there's no one else is rather do this with than you
My love will never reach the heights you deserve
It will never be full enough to fill the empty spots of your past or the bruised parts of our home
It will not be able to provide our family with enough to reach the full potential from shooting stars
The song of my heartbeat keeps playing for you like the song you play when your heart feels beat up
And when the batteries run out, I'll sing for you
But it's never enough to even scratch the surface
However, for everything my love isn't HE IS
So, when I say I love you I'm really communicating how God has allowed me to borrow His sacrifice to help provide you with everything you deserve
When I say I love you it's God speaking for me through everything I prayed for
I love you is me holding your heart because God is holding mine
Love is falling through faith with wings of His promises
You are a reflection of a perfect love so I'm doing my best to look myself in the mirror
Ask the hard questions, because love is something we make not give
p.s. I didn't understand it, until I met you…
walking through life as as a black person,
the world needs to understand
we rock with a rhyme, we bop with a beat
we jive like a jazz band
we improvise on the fly
we adapt to any situation
we can spit a rhyme in real time
and connect with a combination
we can create out of chaos
we can take trash and turn it into treasure.
we can see beauty in the midst of bedlam
and turn dissonance into sounds of pleasure
to journey through life as a black person
we march to the beat up our own drums
we always have a song in our hearts
we are musical phenomenons
we are the deepness of the base
we are the sexiness of the saxophone
we are the smoothness of the violin
we are the richness of the trombone
we have the versatility of the piano
we're the lead guitar that gives the melody
we are the trumpets in life that blow
with much power and intensity
we are the rhythm, we are the rhyme
we are the harmony
we are black people journeying through life
with a musical propensity
so keep shining, keep grinding
keep moving with all that jazz
because walking through life as the black person
just means we have much pizzazz
In the heat we burn for Pepsi
dangle feet from crick docks
Traipse with garage ice
to cheap motels,
watch a tv that's chained to a wall,
go home thinner then we came.
Poor possessions, pay-checked and broke
by Monday. Trailer bred,
no stock, just scrawny chickens,
free range ornery strays,
front yards overgrown
with ever grounded flamingo's.
In the cold we work on beat-up trucks
hoody-up, slap oily knuckles together
patch-up holes in our walls.
Go tree coons, play around
separate, divorce, but never leave.
Break open bar fight bottles,
chug-a-lug through the night
by a space heater’s eerie light.
We are not your kind,
we got a right to be low,
slow to show our sickness
our nearness to workaday dirt.
You who drive by radios in your head
masking your hollow conditions,
you keep on down that dusty road
go find your own damn
tumbleweed roots.
In 1944 or so,
The Nazis did deliver
A group of Jews in Hungary
Into the Danube River.
They lined them up and shot them dead -
Not one did soldiers save -
A Jew was not considered worthy
Of a normal grave.
Before they shot them, one command
Was, "First, take off your shoes."
The shots rang out and that was all
Remaining of the Jews.
Today in Budapest, you'll see
Lined up along the shore,
A lot of beat-up shoes in bronze
To stay forevermore.
And looking at those shoes, you'll find
The past has come alive.
The Jews who wore them somehow
Beat the odds and still survive.
Memorials have power if
They don't let us forget,
And those shoes by the Danube
Left me strongly in their debt.
Traveling through the Valley in my old car
Passing by the rubble that was Saint Ann's
Wondering what is happening to the valley
No more growth, I guess God had other plans
An empty lot where Saint Mary's school use to be
Stopped by and shed a silent tear
Henry's and the My Place are just part of the past
I'm just watching all my memories disappear
The Coffee shop is gone now up in Summit Hill
The stadium stands but there is no scheduled game
The school building became a housing project
Somehow the Valley doesn't seem the same
The churches are combined now, once they all were full
Population's down, getting smaller I fear
We once knew everyone by their first name
I'm just watching all my memories disappear.
We'd hitch hike from Tamaqua to hang at the My
Play the juke box and dance in the back room
Stop by the bowling alley or catch a movie
Now the block's as quiet as a tomb
We'd drag race on a Saturday night on the Hauto stretch
Seems we never really knew the meaning of fear
Kids don't love their beat up cars the way that we once did
And I'm watching all my memories disappear
No more church picnics up in Dutch Hill Park
The hangouts that we knew are now all gone
The pool hall, YMCA and skating rink
In my mind they still linger on
Once we'd gather in the Indian fields
To have some fun and share a quart of beer
Sit along the cemetery wall late at night
I'm just watching all my memories disappear.
Brian’s Birthday
Tomorrow is Brian’s birthday,
Who will his mum invite to play?
Brian hopes that Mick will come
But that depends on Michael’s mum.
Kate always brings nice toys
But never, ever plays with boys.
Or Margaret with her freckled face,
Not a hair out of place,
Bringing presents with expensive trappings,
Bows and kisses and silver wrappings.
Tessa with her bright red hair
Only seems to stand and stare,
Or Richard who’s extremely rude,
Talks whilst he chews his food.
William, who lives next door to Mick,
Eats and eats until he’s sick.
Thomas could come and stay the night
But Tom and Richard always fight.
Last year little Matthew came,
Bringing chocolates and a game
But in a temper beat up Mick,
Michael’s mum came round quick,
“You won’t be coming here again,”
She said, through screams of rage and pain.
Tomorrow is Brian’s birthday,
Who will his mum invite to play?
B. Stebbings
05/03/2016
They told us our skin meant exile
That our joy would be put on trial
Because it brings rain
But how can they hate the rain when it nourishes the ground we walk on
The same ground that grows the food we need to survive
They want us to cower in the face of their Whiteness
To bow down to their egos and stroke it
For us to call them superior
And reprimand our own blackness
And repent with silence
But we were born strong
Strength flowed through our bloodlines
Coursing through generations
Our ancestors created a legacy of pride
That we their children will not allow to be broken
We have endured the stings of their whips
We have lived through the shackles of slavery
We have taken abuse from the system
Yet still remained outspoken
Refusing to be the beat up victim
And faced the inhumane conditions of incarceration
We were made to withstand any storm
To hold our own
Whilst being pushed around
To trust in the power of ourselves
To embrace the harsh realities of life
To continue to love
And balance the rain with our sun
To smile and not giving them the satisfaction
Of their racism
And to not be bullied by their discrimination
if i didn't know about you
and you didn't know me
would we have ever meet ?
was it just a twisted fate
that causes us to manipulate
i don't know ,it happened
to be put on my plate
i try to make it harder then it is
but when is it right to complicate
this passion of never being close
or always wanting to close the door
and my guilt leaving me flat on the floor
for someone who i don't know
the subliminal messages read like braille
my emotions stricken like lightning
leaving me lifeless and frail
i don't know if i can take it much longer
being beat up in a ring with a prize fighter
the challenge is getting tighter and tighter
if you didn't know me how could you find me
in this maze of hidden truths slumber
in a mind full of doubt desensitized by years of
drought and dry are the thoughts of you