Long Blankly Poems
Long Blankly Poems. Below are the most popular long Blankly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blankly poems by poem length and keyword.
Please do not define me by the house I’m living in.
You don’t know where I’m going; you don’t know where I’ve been.
Just because my house is not a mansion or chalet,
Doesn’t mean I can’t be just as happy where I stay.
The circumstances of our lives can change from time to time.
It seems to me that this time, a change will soon be mine.
I’m not sure I am ready to face this task again.
I’m longing for the days of youth and happy times back then.
No matter where I hang my hat, my heart is still the same.
Four walls alone won’t make a home when filled with doubt or shame.
A house is made of bricks or wood, but this I must confide…
A house is not a home unless true love resides inside.
A home should be a place that reaches out its arms to you,
Some rocking chairs on your front porch, where you enjoy the view.
As soon as you set foot inside the door you know you’re home,
Where Home Sweet Home is always best, no matter where you roam.
The welcome mat, it does just that…it makes you feel secure.
It doesn’t matter where you’re at, or if you’re rich or poor.
I think a home can know if you are feeling sad or blue,
And in its way, will do its best to take good care of you.
To me, there's nothing sadder than a house no one lives in.
No family to call its own, and empty rooms within.
Its windows are the eyes that blankly stare, as if to say,
“Won’t you come inside and take my loneliness away?”
The houses where I’ve lived before were happy ones, you see.
I loved each one in different ways and I know they loved me.
I left my mark on each of them in one way or another,
Especially the one I shared with Daddy and my Mother.
This home won’t be as nice as some I’ve lived in, in the past.
Financial strain can dwindle down a bank account so fast.
I have to do what’s right for me, and not for any other.
If you don’t like the place I live, I can’t go buy another.
I hope I won’t be judged by where I live, because you see
Your circumstances, too could change; you may live next to me.
Tornado Magnet, Trailer Trash…call me what you will.
The only thing that matters is the sweet relief I’ll feel.
Although it’s sad to leave this home, I never understood,
The heavy burden of my debt would soon be gone for good.
So if you want to tease me now, I’m sure you will agree,
This “almost” Trailer Trash is very soon to be debt-free!
I stare blankly ahead of me;
stare into the cracked soul of the being who used to reflect a smile
- the girl I used to love unconditionally.
That love evades me now.
Where has it gone?
I search desperately, but I fear it is lost forever
- lost forever in the turbulent streams of my --self--consciousness;
lost in the dark recesses of my mind,
in the shrunken cockles of my heart.
I fear I may never find it.
But surely nothing is ever truly gone;
surely it is simply hiding from me
- playing a twisted game of hide and seek -
or creeping in the shadows of my despair until it is needed again.
I need it now.
Words cannot express how deeply, how utterly, I want to love that person;
to see something of worth or merit in those dark eyes,
to smile back when those pale contours
find their pride again.
But somehow, I just can't see that face the same way.
All I see are lips chapped from saying "no"
- from constantly repenting sins they will soon commit again and again.
All I see are those blank, empty eyes staring back at me
- the cracked soul within beating herself bloody to be freed.
I wish I could see it - I wish I could set that girl free - but somehow I can't find how.
I want to see it again:
the eyes so full of promise and hope that they blossom,
the smile of a girl who knows the world will keep spinning.
the face of a girl who may be chipping away piece by piece, but is still trying.
But you can't see what just isn't there.
I'd like to think that with enough wishing, that face will return;
that somehow the withering girl - bound by her own will - may find the sun again.
That against all odds, the cracks will begin to fade - the splintered child will heal -
and maybe, eventually, time will turn back and her smile will find its way through the pain.
I'd like to think that miracles are a stones-throw away - that all you need is a little bit of pixie dust.
I'd like to believe that love does conquer all - much as the world would like to prove otherwise.
I'd like to believe that, beneath the face of a girl with only bad days left, there hides another girl.
I'd like to believe that inside those soulless eyes,
buried deep within a chasm of depression,
hiding, timid, in the shadows,
there lies another face:
A face that, maybe,
I can love
- or at least smile back at in the mirror.
Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.
Revelations about Dad’s infamous midnight lectures...
woke up courtesy therapy
Especially during past session
on May eighth
two thousand twenty one
between the hours of five and
six o'clock post meridiem.
Between three and four score years ago
the following poetic ill winds did blow
yours truly felt like carrion
repurposed courtesy black crow
decimated to bajillion pieces
analogous to deaf eat, viz bitter foe
where within bared mine soul
telltale toxin did glow
yes dear reader cumulative wrath – hello
synopsis I invite thee to know
why self esteem within me so low
lackluster love life accentuated
cuz yours truly
never kissed under mistletoe
Dreadful homelife upon
exiting early adolescence
no bed of roses parental
wrath did commence
me (especially after
graduating bottom 1%)
scorned as among lowlife
versus being among
productive vested gents
I withstood blistering, mortifying
withering howling offense
yours truly uttered nary a peep.
I dreaded every malevolent utterance
when father requested he speak
not about some choice topic dejure
brought a twinkle to my eye,
but that all to familiar monologue
finding me standing like stone wall
hearing, tuning out with equally
predictable trademark demurely meek
pose with hands crossed against
chest of the then easily intimidated guy
despite feeling effects of utter ennui
and fatigue attempted to stand tall
against the tsunami verbal typhoon
itching to drown out said battle creek
when asked capisce? comprende? farshtayst?
looked blankly at floor well nigh
or pretended to stare at something extreme
fascinating on the kitchen wall
for he may as well asked if I understand
in an unfamiliar language such as Greek
most likely getting successful results
yammering away at common house fly
possibly seething inside (p’raps
equally swatted) ready to lash out into a brawl
held back by fear plus
in comparison to me pop –
just a itty bitty pipsqueak,
who felt onrushing and overpowering
desire to collapse and cry
compounded by growing urge
to urinate from that natural urethral call
spoke nada word, nor gave hint
of hearing from loathsome blather that did reek
like decomposition of fetid of dead
living entity that began to putrefy
which offal to mine ears, tugged impetus
under warm blankets to crawl!
I know that I am dreaming
But I am Lucid and in control
I know this place well
And that is why it perturbs me
The departing sun manages to scrape its final rays over the hills to the north
Earth’s finest beach transitions seamlessly,
Into the blood red sky to the east and west
The limbo I feel is very temporary
A gust of salty sea breeze whistles through my lungs and snaps the senses
So I turn my gaze south, and I know why
The walk begins, without purpose, or so it always seems
My toes dig into the sand, a fleeting sensation of cool comfort
I cut my feet on the unseen, but not unfelt
The twinge of pain is fleeting, for I am approaching my friend
The soft moist sand renders control
This is the domain of the remorseless
I should have found what I was looking for by now
The water has become to deep, so retreat I must
Now comes a choice, which way must I follow the shore?
A short debate, because there is only one destination.
The route should be unfamiliar because I have never been to this particular expanse
I follow the slowly receding tide towards a piece of driftwood
My heart starts to race
Excitement and guilt wage war within me
I alter my course, backing from the sea again
The sea that has led me again, without falter
Back on the dry, warm sand I now have a clear view
So I take a seat, a front row ticket
To the highest rated and most polarizing production
Of my own sub-conscious
In front of me lies, breached, a baby shark
Not enough water to allow escape
But just enough to allow it to survive, for now
The dolphin’s fate rests with me, I am its final judgement
This is why I find myself here every so often
Playing the role of that which I so resent in my conscious
There is no debate
What the poor creature has done or not done
After a period of staring blankly at the suffocating animal
And watching the water slowly drain out of reach of its lungs
The time has come to choose
Life or Death
Neither makes me feel much of anything
I stand over what will become, if I let it, one of the kings of the sea
I stare into its cold, helpless eyes
But they are not cold and helpless
They are piercing and brilliant
Emerald green in the shadow, light amber in the light
They are that girls eyes
I had watched the lights close on those eyes once before.
We actively discussed lots of different books,
We laughed and we have shared intimate intentions.
I told you how in Russia lot of men are crooks.
Now my mind requires medical intervention.
I told you how about life I try to reason,
About the level of the government mistrust.
You turned out to be part of an ugly treason,
However, it caused no significant disgust.
It is certainly not a good thing what you did.
But I did thoroughly understand your reasons.
Meanwhile I opted for my highest ever bid
I miss you and I blankly observe the seasons
Change one another in never ending circle.
We talked of politics, Russia, Putin, welfare,
Canada, songs, US, oil price, Angela Merkel.
Now I compose and every new guy I compare.
You told me not to take it all on my shoulders.
Do what I do, perhaps a little something new.
Want to put your portrait in a picture holder
But I would not tell you 'cause you would look askew.
You love your daughters and not miss having a son.
You even wish that you could have another child.
I still dream of you. I called you my honey bun
In anxious surface shallow sleep. This cold is mild.
You showed me how it's incredibly important
To feel your essence, listen to the voice of self.
Or else you'd turn to mentality of doormat
Although with hundreds of clever books on your shelf.
That's what I unintentionally did with you.
That star night I felt the urge to share I was scared.
You understood, told me you were a little too.
I smiled and offered skinny dipping. How I dared?
Atlantic Ocean gently caressed our bare skin
I swan away from you at some meters distance.
At that point I did not know that we were akin,
I felt solid meaning to my whole existence!
I felt you're open, true, genuinely honest,
I liked you. Someone I can ultimately trust.
There was nothing to each other that we promised.
I'll find this box with memory of us and dust.
One pretty story. One might ask, do I regret?
Oh hell no! I only live once and live to love.
Even though I still do not know how to forget
It. You were definitely indicative of
A total new beginning for me as a soul.
First time I wasn't wrong with initial feeling.
Although for some coming months to come I will crawl,
You left me with sacred talent and pure meaning.
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
I meander
ever
so
slowly
past lawns
strewn
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
staring blankly,
as I obliterate pint-sized
snow angels
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
(Impoverished attention-getters)
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
(Simpletons)
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
Bleak…frozen…
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
so
much
dead.
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
(Wasteful)
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
and just...
turn the air conditioner
ON.
So I sit at a café in Paris and relive my life. I feel the pain of yesterday and the anxiety of today. I see that my pain is so palpable, I almost reach out and touch it. I look down, and it seems that my hand is no longer mine, but a lost appendage unable to write even the simplest haiku. No, I can’t ignore it, I let it simmer and fester until the free flowing sadness begins to leak from my pores. I catch it in my hand and toss it over my shoulder. that. sadness. desire, reality, and YESTERDAY. The sting of thought snaps me back into reality, eyes on fire for reasons unknown. Within a blink, I’m back to the house I grew up in, 4556. Waves of nostalgia crash, I’m down again. The green of the carpet in my bedroom reminds me of my vomit from three days ago, I sickly smile. I see my mother and avoid her eyes, they’re as sad as mine happen to be. S I’m walking the streets of Paris, avoiding the cracks because I still love her, and I come upon a penny(heads up). Once again I toss it over my shoulder. that. her eyes. that carpet. nostalgia, and YESTERDAY. So I’m heading to sleep in Paris and my eyes can’t focus, staring at the lamp that reminds me of my grandfather. We always joked that he’d choose when he wanted to go, gunshot to the heart, self inflicted. I’m afraid to fall asleep because when I do, I’m sure someone else is going to die. My fingers shake along with my clacking knees. Up and down, up and down. The sound echoes and swells in my ears and in my desert chest. I must have used my last tissue because I can’t find any, I guess my tears will fall. They fell before and I couldn’t catch them, I let them tell me what to do. Tonight I wipe my tears with my hand and flick them over my shoulder. that. gunshots. insomnia. tissues, and YESTERDAY. So I begin to awake in Paris and I look in the mirror unable to recognize the woman with sad eyes that stares blankly at me. She begins to rot in front of me, waves of skin pour from her face, her eyes drained of life, teeth on chin on chest, She takes some in her hand that resembles bones from the catacombs, and tosses them over her shoulder. that. reflection. recognition. sad eyes, and YESTERDAY!
The air was thin and icy.
It was dark and cold outside.
A blanket of snow covered the ground.
The footprints in the snow led the way.
We loaded the bus one-by-one as if we were animals entering Noah’s Ark.
Statuesque beings sat motionless in their seats.
Twenty pairs of eyes half-open stared blankly ahead fixated on nothingness.
Our journey to the unknown was about to begin.
The bus tired spun in circles like a child’s merry-go-round.
Round and round they went like the thoughts in my head.
I felt like a kid at the circus.
Excitement and freedom swept over me like a cool, summer breeze.
The road was long and unfamiliar.
Time passed by so slowly as if the earth’s stopwatch had been turned off.
The once frozen bus was not swimming in a sea of hot air.
Our final destination was a small, almost-deserted town in Upstate NY.
It looked as though a plague had swept through like a giant broom and devastated it completely.
One after the other buses pulled up.
A sea of yellow painted the once dreary canvas.
Girls of all shapes and sizes descended onto the now colorful landscape.
All dressed in tan britches, black boots, and smiles.
The clan of riders filed into the ring like a colony of ants all with the same mission.
This was my first mission.
I was a soldier going into battle for the first time.
The ant colony gathered in a circular formation.
The sign-in table was engulfed and swallowed whole.
Numbers were being handed out, one-by-one.
36, 17, 41, 54, 62, 12, 19, 38…
The judge’s voice boomed over the speaker like the voice of G-d.
Every crevice of the ring was filled with the loud, unclear syllables.
Girls of horseback walked proudly and calmly into the ring.
Horses arched their necks and pranced around as if they owned the world.
Tails raised slightly, eyes beaming forward, chests massive.
Hours passed by like days.
My nerves built up like a roaring fireball in my stomach.
One swift leg-up from my coach and I am propelled onto the horse.
I land smoothly into seat of the saddle.
I am welcomed with open arms.
Together, as one creation, we walked into the ring to compete the mission at hand.
Form:
Strikingly crafty logomaniac presents...
what else... his trademark blatherskite!
While sprawled comfortably
numb upon davenport
Iowa daily dose of poetic mishmash,
thus yours truly couches, kneads, sports...
his imponderable matted
swiftly styled balderdash
noah intent to kindle
potential ark enemy, nor abash
please pardon your
garden variety philologos,
preparing himself for backlash
he spouts nonsense words
with chutzpah and brash
his logorrhea affliction begets
meaningless rot i.e. namely ishkabibble,
where scapegoated test dummies crash
inscrutably, dumbly, busily blankly
boxing, blinking, batting... eyelash
hijacking, flouting, disregarding... covenant,
not causing corpus callosum damage
basically self made edict equals hogwash,
within one North American banana republic
predicated upon fiat gnash
trumpets blatantly non subliminal,
subordinate, subtle... ho hum
messages cuz bosh to liberty we smash
with most popular refrain
"send her/him back" cash
hearing purported dispensable
deportee with swash-
buck killing bravado
marquee, where klieg lights
blindingly broadcast in a flash.
"FAKE" mania loosed doth stall
refugees, where desperation witnesses
land of milk and honey,
perhaps some heading to Broomall,
who if necessary crawl
escaping forced sex trafficking poverty,
persecution, violence... downfall,
viz puppet government
tricked out noble (no bull) border wall
configured as demilitarized zone
hostilility spewing noxious,
poisonous, venomous gall
courtesy commander in chief
who essentially hoops to forestall
his impeachment proceedings
bristling, ranting, scathing... twitter feeds
spewing bosh raining hatred filled squall
spouting jingoistic rhetoric
atop anointed hall
of the mountain king
eerily similar to Taj Mahal
firing expletive epithets
assenting military mandating withdrawal
loosing vicious police and/or junkyard dogs
declaring no exemption against marshall
law innocence absolute zero guard
as sharp teeth nsync with flesh maul
cue hideous sinister laughter
welcome to danse macabre ball!