Long Bruised Poems
Long Bruised Poems. Below are the most popular long Bruised by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bruised poems by poem length and keyword.
Ten men in all
They formed his crew
Some were short
And some were tall
Half were on the left
Half on the right
Working together
They were tight
Padded for protection
Helmeted for safety
Robed in commonness
They were shielded to win
Two of them were short
And stayed to the side of the others
Wide with girth
They were there to support
Six were average
They stayed in the middle
Performing their tasks
Daily without umbrage
The last of the ten
Not tall nor short
Were the last to join in
Preferring the group to remain open
Each of them worn
Battle scarred and bruised
Their resolve apparent
Through the flesh that was torn
Some still stood straight
While the others leaned to the side
Each had service this world
With both love and hate
Strong and proud
Those ten could not be separated
Till their last living breath
To their service others bowed
Right and left
Short and tall
A lifetime of service
Free from bereft?
It seemed this was the February
of continual cold and snow,
many days stuck safely in the house
save for the morning expedition out,
to clear a path for the birds and my dog and I;
not too much
just enough of a path to walk.
Not sure which of us was more cautious
the birds, the dog, or I.
Today,
as February nears its end
and the sun has returned
we venture
just a little further out.
My dog realizes the possibility
of walking atop the unmelted snow
suddenly, we have all the yard to peruse
and steadily we go until
we slip and slide as if on frozen ice
and each of us
takes a slippery and chilly spill.
Back inside
bruised and cold
we both realize we don't like
walking on the snow.
There's a storm in my heart
It has tattooed scars on my soul
I have seen the ugly face of a wound
It reeked bitterness
And in the cold dark pain
I felt something die inside me
Now I carry the carcass of dream
My hopes have deserted me
To crown me king of sorrow
My kingdom is brokenness
Pieces of me lie shattered and bruised
I have no song and no dance
I have become a forlorn statue
Time scorns at my disappointments
There is a part of me that no longer cries
It is buried deep inside gloom
I have become stone and desert
And when the arid winds blow
I cringe like a wounded animal
And howl in pain
They were already awake,
The sky dark as the work ahead,
Hands stiff from la tierra,
Feet bruised from the miles,
Yet they never stopped.
The nights were too short,
The days stretched on,
Sleep was a luxury they couldn’t afford.
Still, they pressed forward,
One step, then another.
La tierra gave little,
But took all they had.
Baskets filled with fruit,
Hands worn from the toil,
Every mark, every tear,
A step toward a future
They could only imagine,
But believed in.
Backs bent,
Bruised hands,
Yet their strength remained.
It wasn’t for them;
It was for us.
They worked for a future
That lived only in their dreams.
Every weary limb,
Was woven into a legacy
That endures through time.
What they built isn’t carved in stone,
but in the quiet moments we hold close,
in the lessons that shape us,
in a love that never fades
a legacy that lives within us.
When you look in Tesslynn’s eyes there’s a story to be told
of a little child who’ll never have the chance to grow old.
Tesslynn’s eyes tell a story of a little child abused,
neglected and molested, battered, beaten, bruised.
Tesslynn’s eyes express the wishes of every little child
but in her face the terror of innocence defiled.
Jesse told her if she cried no one would even care
so all that she could do was sit on the couch and stare.
Chorus
Tesslynn's eyes, Tesslynn's eyes, do you see what I see
when you look in Tesslynn's eyes?
Tesslynn's eyes, Tesslynn's eyes
the soul of every child in Tesslynn's eyes.
In Tesslynn's eyes desperation, in her eyes so much pain,
in her eyes a plea for mercy said in silence and in vain.
No one cared about this child. No one knew about her hell,
So the angels came to free her and my mission is to tell.
Repeat Chorus
I want to know what you ache
for
And if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing
It doesn’t interest me how old
you are
I want to know if u'll risk
looking like a fool for love
For Ur dream, for the adventure
of being alive
It doesn’t interest me what
planets are squiring your moon
I want know if you have
touched
The centre of your own sorrow
If you have been opened by
life’s betrayals
Or have become shrivelled and
closed from fear of further pain
I want to know if you can sit
with pain
Mine or your own without
moving to hide it,
Fade it or fix it
I want to know if you can be
with joy
Mine or your own
If you can dance with the
wilderness
And let the ecstasy fill you to
the tips
Of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning me to be
careful
To be realistic
To remember the limitations of
being human
It doesn’t interest me if the
story you are telling me is
true
I want to know if you can
disappoint another to be true to
yourself
If you can bear the accusations
of betrayal
And not betray your own soul
If you can be faithless and
therefore trustworthy
I want to know if you can live
with failure
Yours and mine
And still stand on the edge of
the lake and shout Yes!!
It doesn’t interest me to know
where you live or how much
money you have
I want to know if you can get
up after a night of grief and
despair
Weary and bruised to the bone
And do what needs to be done
It doesn’t interest me who you
know
Or how you came to be here
I want to know if you’ll stand
In the canter of the fire with
me
And not shrink back
It doesn’t interest me where, or
what or whom you studied with
I want to know if you can
sustain yourself
What sustains you from the
inside when all else falls apart
I want to know if you can be
alone
With yourself
And if you can truly like the
company you keep in those
empty moments...
A Quiet Soul — in Ordered Speech —
Unnerved — by Loud Accuse —
Stood trembling — where the Gavel fell —
A Life — they could not use —
For Minds that move in Gentle Lines —
Are strange to Courts of Noise —
Where Power plays its Shadowed Game —
And Terror steals my Voice —
The Bench — a solemn Citadel —
Yet cold — when Truth is near —
Its sentries knowing Innocence —
Encouraged by my Fear —
Cynthia Heir— with A Paper bag—
The jury never Saw —
The subtle Signs — my Rising Pulse —
Without Integrity —
And so — the Heart — to End the Pain —
Would bow to any Word —
A Plea — became their Refuge then —
And Justice was Denied —
But still — the Soul — so bruised by them —
Retains its quiet Flame —
Where God — and Truth — and Inner Light —
Outshine the Courts through Him —
Sky blacks out, cosmic hits hard,
hope stomped flat in the dirt.
Fate snaps like cheap thread—
a flare rips the night, desperate why.
They show up anyway. Scattered, pissed, half-broke.
Never a neat lineup.
Thor crashes down, thunder and beard,
Mjolnir howling, offended.
Lightning stitches dark; he growls old Norse
about shielding these fragile dirt-world hearts.
Iron Man’s late—repulsors blue through smoke.
Tony mutters, half-joke, half-prayer:
“Built the suit so it wouldn’t bury me first.”
Cap steps quiet, shield up, eyes steady.
Still hauling 1940s weight like it’s nothing.
Doesn’t preach. Just won’t let hope die today.
Hulk arrives without warning—ground shakes, screams.
Banner’s lost under green rage, hating what he is
but coming back anyway. Inside the roar,
a guy who just wanted to help.
Widow slips in like smoke—no glow, no speech.
Knives, lies, red ledger that won’t wash clean.
Hawkeye looses an arrow splitting wind.
No powers, just good eyes and bad temper—
wrong place, right time. Again.
Wanda twists chaos like smoke she can’t quit.
Reality whimpers under her fingers—
fragile, grieving, one bad thought flips everything.
Vision floats calm, crystal mind, patched heart.
Speaks probabilities. Nobody listens.
They just need him there.
Then it cracks. Messy. Shields clang, words cut deep.
Egos, stubbornness, old blood. They yell, scatter.
Some don’t come back right. Family’s like that—
bent, bruised, still breathing.
Sky tears wider. Worse crawls through.
One hoarse voice cuts static:
“Avengers… assemble.”
Not a cheer. A plea.
Gods, spies, monsters, machines, soldiers—
flawed, half-broken—drag back.
Not noble. Alternative just sucks more.
Power’s not hammer or glow or gamma veins.
It’s showing up bleeding, hating each other,
when hope’s a bad joke.
Old comics curl at edges, decades of ink,
arguments, second chances—they stand.
Not perfect. Not forever.
Just long enough.
Cosmos notices. Remembers the mess.
The stubborn, stupid, beautiful mess.
There once was a boy who knew this girl
He loved her with his whole heart
Made her his world
She backstabbed and bruised him
But he still stayed
The girl told the boy it was his fault
The boy felt sad
The boy realized that love can only be bought
He thought to himself why couldn’t he go
Was it because he was attached
The real reason he would never know
The girl never truly loved him
She liked how he made her feel
Little did she know the boys future was grim
They hadn't spoken in weeks
She had no clue how he was doing
But that fateful day was the worst for the boy
He had gone through some problems
He sat on his bed not knowing
Whether to be mad sad or annoyed
He thought to himself this really hurts
He was hurt without her
But to she he was just a blur
That night the boy bought a gun
He had just turned 18
When got home he said aloud
Welp it’s been fun
So he grabbed his phone and called his
loved ones
One last time
Just to make sure they knew
How much he truly loved them
He they gets to his last call
It was the girl
The phone rang, no answer
He left a voice mail saying goodbye
She ignored his call but looked at the voice mail
She stared and stared but never read
The boy loads the gun with one bullet
Thoughts flood his mind
Like who will cry and I really want to die
A tear leaves his eye
because he starts to realize
For someone his body they’d have no choice but to find
He puts the gun up to his head at last he’s satisfied
He’s tied up all lose ends..
Said all his goodbyes
He closes his eyes prepared to die
His suffering can finally end
He pulls the trigger the gun goes BANG
It’s over it’s done
But eventually a poor soul
Found him lying in his blood
They cried, they weeped
They only had one question
Why’d he do it he seemed so happy
But that has no clue about the girl
He once saw as a blessing
Her persona is like
a portrait
of picturesque perfection,
embalmed in
bittersweet lavender,
unseen within depths
of tributaries of elixir.
If only they knew
the chaos that flows,
constrained in
a confined
gallery of grief.
Not everyone is
a master painter.
Some brush with brutal
bruised strokes,
provoking timeless
streams of
implicit secrets,
from crimson stains
on ivory satin,
where scents of juniper
evoke phases of
unpredicted phenomenons,
oblivious to chronicles
of forsaken tales,
which hide
beneath barriers,
many have struggled
to venture within.
But there is an artist
with a
pastel on his palette,
that can correct
her disfigured pigment.
He holds cryptic
calligraphic engravings,
veiled behind the inflamed
chamber of her heart.
He understands that her
spirit drowns when
winds are forceful.
How her
delicateness has
been sleeping
on withered roses,
wilted by
cruelest rays of a
summer
mourning
morning star,
Where bedtime stories
were puppeteered
by hurricanes
feeding on
fenceless vulnerabilities.
yet when
sleepless silence sings,
it can disturb
in reverberating
heavy metal screams.
So she echoes her trauma
through hurtful hisses,
poisoning with
vicious venom.
Her aura alters in
acrimonious attitudes
from serene sunshine
to furious gales.
She remains without
a grip on untamable
seasons of
unholy torture,
Only he knows the poem
in her eyes is the
last train home,
so he calms her
tempest temperament,
enabling hidden rainbows
in her mind to reappear.
He is a soothing
gemini night-flower,
even with outcries
of midnight thunder,
his patience resembles
raining jasmine water,
purifying
her murky waters,
into a crystallised milky-way
of kyanite desires,
guiding her
to swirl and swoon
into
whirlwinds of closure.