Long Bleed Poems
Long Bleed Poems. Below are the most popular long Bleed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bleed poems by poem length and keyword.
My pen cannot much bleed.
My heart, though it may ache,
cannot a loud sound make.
I suffer – as do many others -
from nearly endless annoying conditions
for which I seek relief, but I can no more make
you feel my pain
than I can make you feel my smallest grief.
We live each in our own bubble-worlds,
understanding one another’s words,
but how can we really feel
another’s pain for REAL? Mere words do not suffice.
I think of those who suffer from mental illnesses
or others marooned on their own little islands of despair.
How can we ever make ourselves comprehend THEIR pain?
And with strangers, how easily can we care?
We live with trials, sometimes never knowing
why some burdens came to be our own.
People born with no arms or legs – a horrifying fate.
Sightless or worse – the brain so dead it never can create.
What good in bleeding one’s woes with a pen?
Somewhere in the world right now
people are bleeding far worse than you or I
again and again and again.
Imagine if we could really “feel” each other’s pain.
One's mind could not withstand the onslaught
of feeling everybody’s strife.
God made it this way; and thus is life.
And so we write or we tell our woes to friends.
I do not know why some suffer more than others.
I only know one day the suffering ends.
Until then, I keep on writing because I feel the need,
but the pen I use to write with hardly knows to bleed.
Do not look to me with questioning eyes
For i do not possess the answers you seek
i cannot taste the bitter sweetness on your tongue,
or smell the withered flowers along your path
My heart beats with less rythm than your blues
i am unable to stumble through your dark corridors,
for you are poet undiscovered
Your answers are hidden deep within an apathetic pen
For you hide behind a painted closed window
Pushing too little
arriving late
Not aware of your own relevance
Solitarily, feeling sorry for yourself
When instead, pity could be your party
Yes it is true, the world celebrates sad clowns
But you do not let laughter mix with your grey sky tears
i myself, see images of you poured out on limitless pages
Rearranged
Sculpted
Until your words have substance
Becoming living and breathing beings
I wish you to reveal to us your cherished children
Birth them to a forgiving unforgiven world
Risk the grasping hands of rejection
True courage will reveal your annoited pen
Without risk
you cannot
will not
bleed in rainbowed splendor
Instead, days will become years
Yesterday will slide into tomorrow
All the while the world would be less
A shadow of what it could have been
In a place of unawareness
Oblivious to its own lacking
Bathed in deprivation
All because
Of a missing
Unexpressed
Silent
Unexplored
voice!
Or maybe
Just maybe
One letter
A tiny little letter
will grow into a word
Several strung together a stanza
Several stanzas a poem
An honest to goodnes poem
Then we will all be witnesses
To the emergence
The screaming or quiet entrance
The proverbial birth
of a singular voice
of a wide eyed dreamer
Then you will feel that collective sigh
as other broken dreamers applaud you
For on that day
If only you possess the courage
all will know
That you truly are
and always have been
a Poet!
For Tyshawn Knight's "Words of Wisdom" contest
Re edited version.
And so I went to the water,
To wash my wounds,
To cool my burns,
To calm my storms,
Yet still — I bled red.
And so I went to the water,
To dive for clarity,
To search for dignity,
To drown my fragility,
Yet still — I bled red.
And so I went to the water,
To find my innocence,
To forgive my insolence,
To cleanse my conscience,
Yet still — I bled red.
And so I went to the water,
And dwelled in pain,
To mend what love had broken,
To sew what had been torn,
To patch what life had scorned,
And yet — I still bled red.
This red won’t let me go.
This red has stayed.
For it is always the wounded
Who bleed—
Never the ones
Who carry the blade
Same Old Hell
Back in the same old hell-
Back with the same old dwell.
A palace stuck in time,
A house without a rhyme.
The devil creeps ever close-
and he stabs me, so he knows-
how close I am to Death indeed,
and no matter how my poems plead-
he likes to sit and watch me bleed.
Bleed ink and dust and my old spirit;
growing lesser by the minute.
I escaped this house and dwell-
the stories I could ever tell
do haunt my head and chest and heart-
bleeding through the stain of art.
Where once was tears and fears and
sears- into my soul and stories told-
now is barren and empty and hollow
filled with nothing but the sorrow.
And now even I must be bold,
because the stories must be told.
Of fear and pain and haunting Death-
do cometh now and seeks his rest.
Inside my brain and mind and soul,
I play my part and sign my role
away to Death and his old tricks
and watch the hours slowly tick.
Trapped in layers of sin, ambiguity, and shame.
The man walks the loud, but still, lonely streets of the city, searching for something that he does not know. The discarded man. A man standing in the wilderness, screaming out shrieks of pain that are lost in translation. The man fears he is alone. The man stands alone, unable to move, stunned into silence, fearful of speaking. The discarded man dances into each puff and exhale of tobacco. Lost in each swig of beer. The discarded man knows of God, but is still fearful to call on his name. The discarded man walks and drinks in solitude till his feet bleed and he cannot sober up. He does not address his emotional pain. From negligence, this pain takes on a physical being. A being that looks like him, walks like him, speaks like him. The discarded man cannot differ between the being and himself, so they walk as one.
______________________
sorrow is my scar that I keep hidden deep within my heart from the world
it never heals but will bleed forevermore when I think of you mother dear
and I do . . we lived in a fine house with a garden full of beautiful flowers
we took care of them together drinking tea in the shade and we would talk
I loved our country drives and how we always got lost (but discovered lots)
I miss your laughter like church bells ringing although you battled illness
mom you were the most courageous person I have or will ever know
as a child you held me close whispering I love you every single day
as a teenager and young woman you forgave me everything I did
as an adult you were my anchor . . . the reason I am this me
and when you lay sick and dying that was my hand holding
and since that day you left me I float like a drifting cloud
I would like to go back to your garden, mother dear
and lay among your scented flowers
I would gather all of them up . . .
oh, wait at Heaven's gate
I will come one day
or is that a fairy
tale, I tell
myself
____________________
June 1, 2018
Poetry/Narrative/sorrow is my scar
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1028-163-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
God, grant me serenity, to face the I can’t undo,
Death took my mother, ripped my world in two.
Dreams collapse, careers on hold,
Life feels ruthless, bitter, cold.
Some battles are lost before they start,
They carve their scars deep in the heart.
I can’t fix corpses, can’t rewrite the past,
So teach me to drop the chains that hold fast.
Grant me courage, raw and loud,
To stand my ground, to make you proud.
When fear says “quit,” I’ll scream “ no,”
When failure laughs, I’ll still let it go.
Give me the guts to forgive and fight,
To burn through darkness, to chase the light.
To knock on doors when others slam,
To rise again, no matter who I am.
Grant me wisdom, sharp and clear,
To know when to walk, when to persevere.
To see when silence speaks more than rage,
To trust the lesson, to turn the page.
Life’s a bastard, it kicks you down,
Steals your peace, makes you drown.
But I won’t let pain write my fate,
I’ll spit in its face, I’ll stand up straight.
Even with hands that shake, I’ll build,
Even with wounds that bleed, I’m willed.
Even with futures blurred, I’ll stride,
Because courage is moving while fear collides.
Faith ain’t pretty, it’s scarred and raw,
It’s finding meaning in life’s damn flaw.
So I’ll surrender what I can’t control,
And fight like hell with a ruthless soul.
Life may be brutal, sharp, and rough,
But so am I I’m ing tough.
I am a broken man without a home*,
My teeth don't feel right... and I sometimes shake.
There is a difference, now that you are gone.
Of all these, only pain keeps me awake:
Sunsets, cold breezes, heat, and pain, and time...
Of all of these, just pain keeps me awake!
I have a scurvy mood, and there's no lime...
And I am dumb and blind and full of ache.
...And yet, I dream, and Live and Love to Sing!
I go outside, am struck! I can't stay numb!
I pray like Joy's my only steadfast thing!
I bleed, and hurt, stumble... my Voice goes dumb...
But none of these can equal your sweet Smile!
And so, I'll stop, and SEE it, for a while!
*NOTE: For Honesty's sake: I am not homeless, AF
‘Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust’
frozen in stitch by a “toy soldiers rust.”*
Time remembers the scent of his hair,
the fold of the clothes as she left them there.
He was sampling youth when the bugle blew
a boy knowing nothing he thought he knew
answered the call of a nation’s need
denying the truths that soldiers bleed.
‘The war years seemed like only yesterday’
as he wandered, tattered, in disarray,
lost in the grip of a chevron’s cold stain
each breath sadly humming death’s cold refrain.
Threads of his life unraveled by peace
scent of fresh cloth, destroyed, out of reach
his life ebbed away, a flickering spark,
’The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark’
©4/14/2018
*reference to poem “LITTLE BOY BLUE” by Eugene Field
submitted to – One nine and sixteen – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Viv Wigley
... the child within me is the one who stands back up. My inner child is the bravest part of me. Because she is driven with a desperate hope & desire. She possesses true innocence, which drives a native faith that things will someday get better. The reason I'm alive, is because I don't have the heartt to break her spirit. Because, I cant bring myself to destroy the hope & purity she holds.
How dare I even consider killing off her drive, her purpose, & her beautiful tenacity. She possesses a light that most people could never exude themselves. She is a fire that burns intensely, while also offering her light & warmth to other's who need it. She's a warrior without even realizing it. She's hyper focused on her dreams of true happiness. And its inspiring others.
However, her hope is only alive because of her innocent ignorance. Because she hasn't seen what happen's next. That she to face what damage see next! She hasn't seen what darkness she has yet to face. What damage she will both receive, and deal out, under the pressure. She doesn't know that the voices get louder, or that the monsters get stronger. She doesn't know that the That people shell put her faith in will abandon her. That she'll be left to bleed by herself. She doesn't know that all those who she's shared her fire with had no intentions of giving in return. That she will be used until she's no longer needed. That she'll be ignored when she begs for help. That she'll be fighting for her life until her soul gives.
But worst of all, she doesn't know that shell look in the mirror someday and realize; that the monster she feared the most, that she fought the hardest to kill, was herself.
And theres only way to Finally End The War.