Long Bleeding heart Poems
Long Bleeding heart Poems. Below are the most popular long Bleeding heart by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bleeding heart poems by poem length and keyword.
Bleeding Heart
Choose life, suicide; born free, running wild.
Let down, picked up, never learned how to love.
You will always be my Queen; you will always have my heart.
Let your love bleed into me and I will tear it apart.
Here she comes in angel wings;
Covering me in her empathy.
I feel her love entrapping me;
Locked away inside her heart, I am finally free.
Free from the search of a true love that will last forever;
At last accepting love is temporary and at some point love will sever.
Severely love is ripped from my hands,
As she casts a glance at another man.
My bleeding heart lies there on the floor,
It is beaten, it is broken; it is in love no more.
Love will not last forever and some day it will fade,
But if you have it, hold onto it like it’s the key to your grave.
Because love will release you from the fear of death…
But love will bring your end, when you have nothing left.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Alone it stands as its fire red leaves blow in the breeze, never saw such vibrant red leaves, next to it vibrant green leaves still waiting to change.
The whole street is alive with red, yellow, brown it’s fall lovers dream, cooler weather brings out the colors, as the sky finally clears from an early morning shower..
I can see the morning dew still on its leaves as it waters the dying grass below, everything has its place the fall season, birds are singing their morning song.
The fire red tree so vibrant with deep red color, it almost screams look at me, my color is alive, just for you, Our Savior created me so others may smile, as a final blush before winter, perhaps a bleeding heart for someone who lost a loved one..
Oh how I love fall, so many colors sights, sounds to please the soul, please close your eyes, imagine being so beautiful inside, that’s how our Jesus sees each and every one of us in His eyes, as The tree's moments of fleeting time, as each leaf represents a memory that will soon be carried away by the wind.
Who Even Told Her That
We have our priorities. Our lunches. At prissy linen-covered tables.
With the best silverware, and steaks cooked exactly right.
So do not let that woman in. Tell her I am gone on sabbatical.
It is too bad about her child and cancer is awful, but I am busy.
And that steak is waiting with warm hot rolls, and real butter.
We have our preferences. Guns, ammo, and war machines
Bringing in lots of money for constituents who have paid me well.
I cannot wave at them at lunch if I filter their profits into something
As unpopular with them as cancer research.
Maybe we could give a dollar
Or two, but who cares that it is the number one killer of children?
My children are safe. My grandchildren do not have it.
I have lunch
Ready, at a table, ready to be served to my waiting belly.
Tell that woman to go away.
Bringing her child with her is a media trick.
I am not caving on this.
Seven hundred and ten billion to my fat cats,
Zip to cancer research.
Why does she even KNOW that none of the
Pittance we give is going to find out why
cancer is the number one killer of children?
Who told her that?
You bleeding-heart secretaries ought to keep your mouths shut.
My lunch is waiting dhramm it!
In the twilight of a violet sunset, when my soul dons veils of melancholy,
I sit alone, surrounded by phantasms and unspoken words, whispering ancient incantations,
My verses, silk threads woven from starry tears and lunar sighs,
Rise towards the celestial vault, carrying the secrets of my troubled heart.
Poetry is my hidden kingdom, a crystal citadel buried in the mist of the mind,
Where no one can enter, where each syllable is a drop from the elixir of immortality,
Each metaphor, a rare flower grown from the fertile soil of divine experiences,
And the rest of the world is but a faded shadow, lost in the maelstrom of eternity.
Who dares to step into my garden of verses, to profane my altar of creation?
Who can understand the cosmic storm in a poet's soul, the infinite ocean of emotions?
Let me sing my pain and ecstasy to the rhythm of my bleeding heart,
For poetry is my sacred temple, and you, mere mortals, have no place in the sanctuary of words.
In the deep night of creation, when the moon weeps silver on astral parchments,
I transform into an alchemist of the divine verb, melting reality into mystical verses,
Creating new universes from the ashes of memories and the dust of shattered dreams,
And you, who do not perceive the magic of this sacred ritual, can depart to profane realms.
Each poem is a piece of my celestial essence, a prayer whispered in primordial darkness,
An invocation addressed to the forgotten gods of inspiration and eternal beauty,
I care not for your petty criticism, for your ephemeral misunderstanding,
For I exist through poetry, and you are but passing shadows on the cave wall.
So leave me alone with my verses, with my demons and seraphim,
With metaphors dancing in my mind like blue flames from another dimension,
Poetry is my intimate ritual, the cosmic blood flowing through the veins of my personal universe,
And you, who do not feel the divine vibration of words, can lose yourselves in the void of oblivion.
Why do we pretend to not long for the heart of another?
Why do we let people we want to let into our world, stay on the other side of the glass?
Why do we overthink the little notes that Cupid plays when we see them?
Why do we withhold the flowers we picked for them?
Why do we pretend that love is dead, when it's the one other thing that makes humans feel alive?
Why do we feel that a concept is all it is?
That there's no way that our better half lies in someone else?
That someone else could helps us find the missing piece of our puzzle?
That maybe a bleeding heart can be mended again?
That scarred hands can craft masterpieces?
That a dying canary can sing a melodic piece?
That a frayed instrument can play again?
That broken things still have value?
Why do we believe fairy tales are just that?
Pieces of fiction used to sell a point
But what if the point they're trying to sell is that the magic of it all isn't a spell
That love doesn't come from throwing a penny down a wishing well
But it's from trying and putting yourself out there
Even when your heart is battered and bruised
Even when your eyes no longer can produce tears
After crying over a love that no longer exists
Even when your soul is in dismay
Why not just take the gamble
And try once more?
"What becomes of the broken-hearted, who had love that's now departed."
(Song Title, Jimmy Ruffin, 1988)
Hearts meant to be whole
When broken, tear asunder the soul
When our love was on the upswing
Our hearts flowed from one wellspring
Of tenderness and devotion, empathy, care
We sailed through the skies, daring to dare
And just when we thought we'd reached
The pinnacle of Heaven, with a screech
Such a shriek, our hearts tumbled down
Cruelly failing us, 'till they burst on the ground
The blood seeped into crevices and cracks
Nevermore to be felt, there was no turning back
For the tears that attended this heart-wrenching sight
Blotted out the sunshine, turning day into night
Hearts meant to be whole
When broken, tear asunder the soul
July 18, 2019
Writing Challenge 2, July 2019 -- Melancholy
Sponsor: Dear Heart
When feeling sadness- I seek art,
the strokes of masters bring me peace;
the colors soothe my bleeding heart,
my soul touched by each masterpiece.
I wander hours;
among flowers !
In the art I need- to be part,
and my delight will never cease;
fancy that I never depart,
for great artwork gives me release.
Art pieces cry;
step in they sigh !
______________________
June 02, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/Posie/Lost In Art
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1461-264-02
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La Franc
Written for the Premier contest, Posie
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 06/30/2022
Second Place
Banquet of people like wildflowers, shemales swaying thier county sides from left right, funky cat shoes, bikinis
all that stuffs, some religious ones were odd though.
Every male manning his Oars. Things seem clearer now .
Some smiling in between pains, some laughing while
the pain is under, some buying attitudes some selling .
They say "life is such a business," "buh what think u?"
Me!," "what u do with it today is what u get from it the
Morrow & what u do away today is what u
do without the Morrow."
Suddenly Nene came, but Dada has just gone on a sudden journey
never to return. Momma is lonely and I can't comfort her.
Lola is a bleeding heart and Junior has marked another sexy figure.
So I roadbed my phases & titled it " three phases of my life "
"experience is a name that men give to their mistakes"
Ok you found the way
To my bleeding heart
Unlocked the door
Maybe love can start
Come inside
Take a look around
I will not hide
From the pain you found
The tears I cried
When you went away
I kept them inside
For this special day
So take a piece
If you like
Can’t cry no more
I’m cold as ice
Can you light the fire
Once again
Turn up the heat
For an old friend
Turn this spark
Into a flame
Until its roaring
And burns the pain
I said I loved you
But that didn’t count
You walked away
Said you had some doubts
But let’s be truthful
You saw another
It was in your eyes
You blew your cover
© Copyright KC.Leake
26th April 2015
All Rights Reserved
Based On Fantasy
we don’t appreciate
the sun until it r a i n s,
warmth of gentle rays
that subtly stroke
distressed skin
when time was f r o z e n
smiles were s t o l e n
and hope yet again
remains b r o k e n…
whilst I’m lying here
in the in-betweens of
procrastinated promises
along bitter breezes~
you use your poetic
words as a weapon,
oppressing the guardians
around my dreams,
oblivious to the
translucent truth
laced in trimmed nylon,
that you and me
we’re made of
the same s t o n e
we wear the same
crown of t h o r n s
sitting on the throne
of darkness, full of
stainless steel cages
and chain link fences,
turning
these emotions
into
cancerous tumors,
knocking on your
conscience, patronizing
the pigments of
my petal-like palette
by questioning
your own roots..
but now I’ve got feathers
in my bleeding heart,
and if these crimson wings
could fly, you’ll find me
soaring above seas
of solitude, that pushed
me down to an abyss
of n o t h i n g n e s s.
watch me unlock
the keys of jasmine doors
to seek serendipity surrender,
as my muse serenades
rainbow reveries,
amidst faded stars
and moonless nights
which
gaslit my
apologies and roses.
I have tried
to twirl through
ravenous ravens in a
carnival of carnivores
you’ve fed my mind
labelling me
as the serpent q u e e n
with twisted words,
whilst you whirl around
with
ghosts of p o e t r y
in your
cathartic h a z e..
your love
is a hand grenade
that shattered my aching
bones into scattered
s m o k e and f o g
they say
the biggest hearts
are the
biggest targets,
and the rifles you hold,
seems to have
my name engraved in
blood-soaked tears…
so, now that you’ve
pulled the trigger,
how would you stop
the ammo?
Will you remain forever
in your
unbending silence
a false humility
disguised
as k i n d n e s s
that flickers glitter,
to ascend brighter
as the bullet settles
upon my spine, halting
me from movement?
Or will you watch me
c r a w l back to the
spheres where I belong?
for I refuse to rot
as a victim of an
unwritten circumstance.