Long Boyfriends Poems
Long Boyfriends Poems. Below are the most popular long Boyfriends by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boyfriends poems by poem length and keyword.
My car was in the shop so I rode the bus
Sat next to my ex girlfriend without a fuss
Didn't think she would talk to me
But she yakked so my ears wanted to bleed
Didn't know your cat Fluffy died
Didn't know your boyfriends parole was denied
Didn't know your mother is moving in again
Didn't know it hurts to force a grin
Didn't know you lost some weight
Didn't know on a bus there's no escape
Didn't know there's an election soon
Didn't know tonight is a full moon
Didn't know your aunt married number nine
Didn't know your credit card was declined
Didn't know you lost your rhubarb pie recipe
Didn't know you would still talk to me
Didn't know your brother married him
Didn't know you always cheated at gin
Didn't know why I avoid the bus
Didn't know so much about us
The bus stopped and I got off
She wanted my number but I had to cough
She waved bye and yelled call my phone
I said sorry left mine at home
Finally I was walking free
Hailed down a yellow taxi
What did in her did I see
Could she still like me
Didn't know I would see you
Didn't know what I would do
Didn't know I was finally over you
Didn't know but your still so cute
Didn't know I would see you
Didn't know what I would do
Didn't know I was finally over you
Didn't know but your still so cute
Your looks intrigue me
Your personality has drawn me in
I'm lost
Where are you
Where've you been?
I wonder along like lost at sea
Following a sirens song hoping it is ment to be
This feeling i have,
This care in my heart
Cant be dampened
But your silence is tearing me apart,
Is the sirens song a lover or a friend?
Will this song never end
What will I do when the melody ends,
Leaving me crashed on the rocks
Never to spend another minute, another hour,
Talking with you, Whatever will i do,
This silence on your end,rends my heart in two
Where are you
Where have you been
Im missing your sweet words,
Your gorgeous mood and your loving attitude,
Where are you my love, i hate this silence
It cuts through me like a knife
Please tell me if you know you won't be around
So i know your safe and sound,
This bothers me, whatever will I do,I hate this silence
Does it bother you too?
Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?
I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty
Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—
Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.
Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas
Normalcy seemed to resound
like a year-end brag letter,
for out of reach are those possibilities
when locked up in a ward.
Voices itched inside her body
and creepies crawled along her skin.
Scheduled meds didn't cessate this,
just kept the demons from screaming
loud enough for others to hear.
I ask about her, in cordial simplicity,
through our sporadic letter correspondence,
but those words only fill a void
that speechlessness requires,
for I know she isn't well.
Unable to contribute to society
must be a burden of worthlessness.
Long term, she hasn't seen
the trials of the outside world,
only the weight of sin within.
No muscular arms carry that weigh with love
and no one receives her vain attempts.
Many boyfriends have left
over a decade ago
and took her sanity with them.
Possible opportunities of redemption
are now ghosts that taunt.
I flounder for words
to tell her plainly about
what's going on with my life.
Marriage, kids, home, hobbies, a job,
all common things, generic to many,
seem like a year-end brag letter,
for in her life
all these things
could have been,
but are now far out of reach.
Instead, I prayerfully and artfully inscribe
just one phrase, and only this,
"Happy spring, a new beginning."
5/30/20
Sunrise was just a red line in the inky void, as Lisa and I reached the harbor decking stairs,
but at once, the brazen slash began widening, like a silent, slow motion explosion,
thin, smoky wisps of cloud, like flammable tissue, prismed the stage light ignition.
bee-de-deep my phone chirped. It was Peter (my bf).
“Hey you,” I pronounced, as Lisa took off her left sneaker and shook it, upside-down.
“How’s the harbor?” Peter asked. I glanced at my watch, it was 5:32 am in New Haven.
Peter must be at lunch (in Geneva) and tracking our morning run with the ‘Find My’ app.
“Beautiful,” I pronounced, “they’re really putting on a show.”
Of course, I meant the universe, the sun, the turns who were already at work, and Long Island Sound.
The gulls, perched on whatever, and grousing at each other, obviously haven’t had their coffee.
I read that AI had decoded bird talk and on a wire, they chittered, “Move over, you’re in my space.”
“Just wanted to say good morning,” Peter confessed, “Good Morning.”
“Good morning,” I wished back, “gotta go,” I replied, Lisa had finished de-pebbling her shoe.
“Yep,” Peter agreed, “Seee ya,” he quipped. “See ya,” I chuckled, smiling.
My watch asked, in my Air Podded ears, “Have you finished your workout?” because I was motionless.
I pressed the crown of my watch and slid the phone back in my pocket, our jogg’s only half done.
We began our harbor exodus, by turning our backs to the haven. It was already beginning to busy with boats.
We slipped on our hats and protective, polarized sunglasses as we began to run directly into the blazing sun.
.
.
Songs for this:
Sail on Sailor by the Beach Boys
Dancing in the moonlight by Toploader
Cold Heart - PNAU Remix by Elton John, Dua Lipa, PNAU
#Plea_for_our_daughters_and_sisters_lives
No no no...as the last words of a daughter, begging her murderer, begging for her life and still he continued and ebbed the soul out of her body. The mood in South Africa is now down, heavy dark cloud hangs over us all, not just clouds, but traumatized spirits of daughters and sisters, everywhere everyone wiping tears, that pours immensely.
Fear traps pride, instead of celebrating birth of daughters, we tremble, silenced by fear. South Africa has turned from a home to a den of predators, preying daily on our daughters and sisters.
The streets, schools, even our homes no longer safe, for our own by our own, worse when churches too have joint hands in perpetrating, in South Africa no female is ever safe
How many should die in the hands of those who claimed to love them, how must be killed by fathers, boyfriends and husbands before we all say enough, are we to wait until there are no more daughters and sisters in our homes? Are we to wait until the are no longer spaces in graveyards to burry, for they will be filled by our sisters and daughters alone?
The silence has gone way too silence for one to not speak, emotions evoked in me, skews my spirit, wanna lean but daughters and sisters are nowhere near to hold me, the spaces around me, where once sisters and daughters occupied, are horrifying, I fear South Africa shall one day have no daughters to call, for the taking is out of control,
Dear God, please salvage our daughters, from the grip of heartless men, empty quickly the anger and remorseless filled hearts before they shut down completely, a women womb, of daughters. Intervene before all left in South Africa be names and memories of our daughters, your silence is deafening. I plea for our daughters and sisters lives
#Poetic_Ink
Andrea
Teacher/communicator, wordsmith, night owl, and loyal friend
Daughter of Roger and Jean
Lover of her family, her independence, and simple pleasures
Who feels joy in life's sunlight, stress from things now stealing it away, and a sense of foreboding that brings her sleepless nights
Who fears the waning of her sun, loss of normalcy, and new struggles coming to the world.
Who would like to see global harmony, opportunities for everyone to live a decent life, and old boyfriends the way they are today!
Resident of "Happy Valley," Utah
Dietrich
Written 9/23/2012 and now entered into the Portrait of a Poet Contest
of Gautami Phookan
God Created Me For A Reason
By Valerie D. Staton
My mother did not initially want me
Tried to spontaneously abort me
But the God who sits on high would not let me die
He created me for a reason
My father never wanted me
Never provided for nor inquired about me
But the God who sits on high would not let me die
He created me for a reason
Ex-boyfriends, used me and abused me
disgraced me and verbally raped me
But the God that sits on high would not let me die
He created me for a reason
My mother and I were the best of friends
My father and I have made amends
God rescued me from the hands of my oppressors;
never to be oppressed again
The God that sits on high has not let me die
He created me for a reason...
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespear’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lay here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia.’
That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.
Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.
Shall we poetize?
I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.
It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.
A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, scantily clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
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Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean