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.
The cobblestones whisper secrets, a forgotten lullaby,
As she walks, a shadow slipping, beneath a bruised sky.
Lost girl, with eyes like embers, reflecting a fading flame,
Searching for a haven, a place to call her own, a whispered name.
Her worn boots tread the city, a symphony of lonely sound,
Each echo of her footsteps, a sorrow deeply profound.
The neon signs, a mocking kaleidoscope, paint her face in light,
But she yearns for something deeper, a beacon in the night.
Lost girl, with whispers of stories, etched upon her skin,
Of dreams that turned to ashes, and battles she couldn't win.
She carries a weight unseen, a burden on her soul,
A longing for a touch of kindness, to make her feel whole.
The city sleeps, a concrete jungle, where shadows dance and play,
But she wanders, a solitary figure, lost in the fading day.
Lost girl, a fragile flower, with thorns that shield her heart,
Seeking solace, seeking refuge, a brand new fresh start.
But hope flickers in her eyes, a tenacious, unseen spark,
A whisper of resilience, a promise in the dark.
For even in the deepest shadows, a light can still ignite,
And the lost girl, with a determined stride, will find her own inner light.
Broken doll, made to grow up way to soon
From life’s knocks, she never was immune
A bruised body, mind that failed to reform
But with a hidden strength not to conform
All hated her inner soul that was not theirs
Her secret thoughts left them all unawares
To the power, she held within her own ego
Whilst, fighting for her inner, chosen credo
What was her religion, was anyone’s guess
Bound with stop signs to others, no access
Left alone, the only player in her, own play
Living in her mind what should be each day
One day, a light will dim on her pantomime
As she ails being born before her own time
Plunging, lifting, plunging -as wind blew ashes all around -
the shovels' blades incised the cold and black encrusted ground.
Attached to shovel handles were the arms of skeletons - of men,
who pausing, hacked and wheezed; then bent and smote the dirt again.
With bruised decrepit bodies - and coerced - they struggled on
beneath a sky from which the sun for them had long withdrawn.
And seeping into nostrils came that too familiar stench
when shrieking had died out, and still - they toiled at the trench.
Perhaps they dreamed of tunnels; that the cracks within the earth
inflicted by their shovels formed a path to their rebirth.
What horror in the knowing there were no more tears to cry
or that their bodies - shoeless - might, in graves they’d dug, soon lie.
First posted 5/6/10
Entered in the '2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 8' Poetry Contest of Mark Toney
Entered Feb. 5, 2023
for 2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' Final Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
There is an art to silence
The only thing louder than violence
Sitting beneath the trees
Looking out at the lazy seas
Was any of it worth it
When it left you in a burning fit
Your body is broken and bruised
Words are spoken but you're too abused
So you sit there and close your eyes
Hoping for sanctity from all of the lies
And when you open them you'll see the cage
And you'll feel a seething rage
But there's no escaping your thoughts
So very hard you fought
Perhaps it was all a waste
When all you wanted was a taste
Of the freedom you've heard so much about
That so many tout
But there is an art to silence
The only thing louder than violence
Whether I'm awake or asleep,
I walk down a diabolical dark street,
heckled by a voice in repeated repertoire
with dauntingly detestable words.
Taunted and tormented is my soul.
On and on it will dismally droll,
leaving me bewildered, lost in confusion
irritated with the infusion inside my head.
It's a plague, a dreaded curse...
a haunting that hovers as I lie abed.
I'm not demented or delusional.
If this is a callous collusion to drive me insane,
I beg deliverance from the echoing refrain
that takes me into the depths of despair,
leading me blindly as though it doesn't care
if I live or perish in the annals of an abyss.
I ask... what damnable deed have I done
that makes me bleed like this?
Is there no hope of suturing my wounds,
or eviscerating my harrowed heart?
If I could expunge the voice from my mind
would that ease the grief caused by the thief
who is hell bent on ripping my life apart?
Accusations spill from invisible lips...
from a tongue that blames me for horrid things,
leaving me grieving and bereaved
as if the voice is a goading gossipy mouth.
It's a conceived conspiracy,
a fallacious fallacy of falsehoods,
madly mocking me with condemnation.
It's branded me by burning my ears
with barbs that leave scars with its jeers.
Charred parts of me that will not heal,
my body is battered and bruised.
I'm sodden with tears as if from a deluge,
while over and over again the voice speaks out
with a commanding presence of clout.
Each tear cuts my cheek until blood seeps
from the crux of my soul.
Every drop falls at my feet in a scarlet flux.
Wracked with sobs, prostrate with weeping,
still the hissing voice berates me,
leading me further into silent shadows.
My head pounds from resounding jeers.
"I'm not guilty," I scream, even if it's a dream.
A vortex of eddies swirl at my bare feet.
I'm a helpless babe left alone on the street...
breathing shallow, but the voice will not fade.
Cold fingers reach for me
but no comfort do they bring
for the obstinate voice in the obsidian darkness
will not release its hellish hold.
When comes the hour of dappled Dawn,
I plead that she may take palpable pity on me
and touch me with golden rays of warmth.
I will linger as she softly whispers my name,
desperate that she can rid me of fear
and make the vilifying voice in my head disappear.
"Insights from Heaven,"
Prayer is a pathway to a rich and meaningful life in which time has no meaning.
Once someone starts a life of payer they are changed forever.
There is no going back.
The insights gained from the world around them are so powerful it is consuming.
When you have a life of payer you have a huge responsibility for those around you.
Prayer is the first line of defense for the heart and soul.
Otherwise they are left bruised and bleeding on the side of life's highway.
Prayer is to the soul what oxygen is to the heart life.
Whether we realize it or not we are actually comforted in the knowledge that someone we hold dear those who hold us up to the throne of heaven.
They care for us so deeply that they will seek daily solitude to strengthen their own relationship with the Lord.
In doing so they touch heaven for us. Our lives become more clear and focused.
Throughout their lives they have learned to to slip their hands into the Father's hand.
They help us not to drown in our daily struggles.
Our family, friends and neighbors uplift our concerns as much as possible.
Prayer will bring healing and strength to those who are weary.
God's love will flow from your heart to theirs to show that they are highly treasured.
His love has supernatural power and will bring life to those who honor Him.
Knowing the Father is always available.
It is a beautiful gift He bestows upon us.
"For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing."
2 Cor 2:15 (NIV)
Book Details
Seventy years ago I became involved in a game.
A game, which allotted me no times out,
Nor was I given the ability to punt.
I have played this game not always full out,
But have never ceased to believe
That I would be more than a marginal player,
Because God is my coach;
This game, at times, has found me with feelings dinged,
Ego bruised, and requiring time in the whirlpool.
There have been times when I would have chosen to lateral
But life made no provision for that.
During times when obstacles seemed insurmountable,
And I was penalized by the odds,
God, my coach, allowed me to prevail.
There were times when youthful impatience,
Or perhaps the Devil,
Told me "Go for it all",
And invariably I would fall incomplete,
Or one of life's speed bumps would sack me.
At other times I've ripped off huge chunks of yardage
Quickly moving the chains down the field,
And into the red zone;
Today, I find myself in the fourth quarter,
And inside the two-minute warning;
Since I'm destined to be a winner,
And God will soon take me from this game
The most promising option left
Is to take a knee and wait for time to expire.
Then Heavens scoreboard will read GAME OVER.
A free verse/haikus
Abused and bemused
So taken advantaged of
Accused…took the blame
Amused by muses
Strifeful peace don’t mix too well
Held on for dear life…
Crippled and confused
Delicately decaying
Bruised feelings…screwed loose…
Collapsed suddenly
Guess this is goodbye for now
Burdened — in a rut…
Cut down the ropes please
Tell me it’s okay…I’ll live
Give or take…at ease
Yet, I’m too nervous
Too fearful of what lies dead…
Dead inside — anxious~
Too afraid to let go
Rather be dead than alive
Feeling so hollow . . .
Here’s two words I feel —
Lonesome insecurities
You are a joy kill
I’m misunderstood
So? — you ask like whatever
Too good to be real…
I look back to the sixties, standing for a cause
Change society, from the world remove the flaws
How the seeds of discontent were scattered
We walked with a purpose, make a statement for the land
An urge to change the world, a time to make a stand
With the apathy today, I guess it never really mattered
We've lost our sense of urgency, our drive has gone away
Democracy is dying as we approach our darkest day
Has liberty been murdered, have our dreams all been shattered
We can rise above the garbage that has been thrown in our face
We can stand together to make the world a better place
If we accept social injustice, then it never really mattered
We see the times are changing not for better but for worse
Dissension becomes the blessing, patriotism becomes the curse
Our constitution has been raped and left all bruised and battered
Do we hang onto our standards with our backs against the wall
Do we bow our heads like puppets as we watch our country fall
Then for all our souls who died for freedom, it never really mattered.
I will stand for liberty and justice. I will die for freedom's sake
I will stay a patriot though the earth beneath me shake
I will salute our flag though she be torn and tattered
If we allow the powers to destroy our democratic dream
If we let them undo the constitution that once was held in high esteem
Then our liberty is over and it never really mattered.
The Salt Horse
Her body brushes the forest's bark like a clock made of dew,
her skin trembles thin, a flag of water beaten by the wind,
through the wood's fingers pass warm trade winds like a breath,
the trees' hands cool themselves in her as in a hidden spring,
beyond so much touching sleeps a horse as vast as the horizon,
his flesh is violet like a jellyfish dreamed in the sea's sleep.
From his mane living tentacles are born, serpents of salt and light,
they gather the bodies around and drink them like wells,
the chests break free alone, running bare like stray dogs,
they carry on their skin bruised imprints, old kisses of fire,
the fields bare their great teeth and bite into memories,
and the marks left behind burn like mouths that can't be filled.
Those immense mouths swallow the vines fleeing in fear,
cut into pieces, the vines rise up straight like candles,
at their tips small suckers grow, blind eyes searching the sky,
everything trembles in an ancient rhythm, a boundless dance,
I watch you from the horse's shadow, from his violet flesh,
not knowing if I'm dreaming, or being born from his salt-womb.
We are only shape and longing, living clay under a mercury moon,
blood runs through the trunks like a liquid smoke, white and heavy,
your hands are roots, your mouth a crystal made of dew,
inside you the trade winds burn as in a templeless temple,
and the erotic horse dreams he might become a forest,
and the forest, in turn, dreams it wears a mane of jade.
The bare chests remain, knocking at the gates of evening,
the bruised imprints remain, writing their story across the fields,
the horse remains, silent, his flesh a jellyfish gone dark,
and we remain, longing and ash, inside the body that forgets us,
somewhere on the horizon a new vine climbs again toward the light,
and at its tip grows a sucker-flower, red, mystic, alive.