Long Cathartic Poems
Long Cathartic Poems. Below are the most popular long Cathartic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cathartic poems by poem length and keyword.
Writing
All my words fall from my pen,
Into your mind and back again.
The words pour through my veins
And they have to be ejected from my brain.
I think I need to get some ink,
Words engraved upon the skin.
Tattoo their idea and let it sink in,
So you can permanently disfigure yourself in their image.
All I write is unseen by you
And all I think has been lost inside my words.
I share every feeling because it is all true
And writing is cathartic for the soul and mine needs to be heard.
The first shall be the last
And the last shall be the first,
To understand my words.
Everything I write needs to be said;
This is a favourable curse.
I tell you about my life,
Because I have nothing to hide.
I have no fear to fear and undiscovered thoughts inside;
So I must write them for myself before I die.
I want to live a life less ordinary
And I want to tell you my own story.
The story of a life of intrigue and mystery;
I need to tell you about the people in my life who mean so much to me.
Dreaming the American dream;
I’m going to make it big you will see.
If I can make it, then you can too;
You will see my book in that window one day…
This I promise to you.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Cold air whistles acquainting
me with Arctic Blast, when
roundly forcing acquiescing
into half foursquare corner, activating
most recent spate of
ideal linkedin warm weather
ah...,my favorite sweet
spot for read ding
partially secluded from
gossip mongers addicting
fellow nosy residents,
who rarely brave elements
of style lush nature addressing
natural environment, sans leaving
comfort of their hermetically
sealed apartment adhering
to zero risk exposure
even during pitch
perfect weather adjusting
cessation to renouncing
"cabin fever" administering
most potent panacea
for heavenly solar fling
nay, most every tenant
here at Highland Manor
prefers vicariously admiring
terrestrial flora and
fauna, even when nature
bursts forth with adoring
"The Rite of Spring" adorning
the snapchat buzz zee
flight of the Bumble Bee
the still frozen, yet slowly aerating
rib rock solid state terra
firmae slowly alleviating
thick slabs of iced over terrain
indiscriminately allocating
patch of landscape
legion limitless almsgiving
then as instagram dusk
preempts afternoon alternating
cathartic, fantastic,
and iambic anesthetizing
magic, opportunistic, and therapeutic
reverie blitzed, viz banshee screaming
mother nature's wound
dead spirit expressing
agony dost vent wrath
heartfelt lament vacillates, manifests,
and explodes analogous
qua red bull who readily
didst get smitten angling
to expunge anguishing
cumulative racking torment
hell bent on annihilating
primate responsible species
akin to a silent spring announcing
slow but inexorable annulling
guardian (nee abuser) role usurped
by *****sapiens,
who need answer
for relentlessly antagonizing
writhing, lowing, and bristling
Planet Earth!
'My' biggest mistake was being born a girl
I was never going to meet your expectations for you wanted a
Son and you got me ...mum said to you ‘I was the next best thing’
That’s maybe why you treated me and my sister
Anne so differently - she was like a princess
Kept by you and mum, never having to work
Even now she treats me like a second class citizen BUT
Now you are no longer here I am finally free from the past
There are no words to express my
Heartfelt sorrow at the way you treated me
All I wanted was to be loved by you but
That love was never ever there for me
You never acknowledged anything I achieved
Or the fact I gave you your only grandchild
Unwanted unloved that’s how I was made to feel by you
Looking back over my life has been difficult
Only recently I discovered the full extent of the
Variance between the way you treated us both during your lifetime
Except one thing you could never take away from me was my
Determination to stand on my own two feet and be my own person
Maybe life could have been different if you’d got the son you wanted BUT
Everything I have I worked for and I am proud of who I am
My Biggest Mistake Contest sponsored by Laura Loo
This is probably the most personal poem I have ever written but it has been so cathartic to finally put this down on paper and put my ghost to bed. Maybe in time I will finally grieve for my father, but I have been told by Hospice that this could take many years.
07~04~16
This is a true, but amusing tale,
Hope your laughter does not fail,
'Tis a saga of a cockatoo,
Of life, he held a jaundiced view,
At the going down of the sun,
Cocky embellished his own fun,
And at the rising of each dawn,
Cocky's catharsis our ears did adorn,
The parrot kept talking, none listened to he,
Cocky had such a vivid vocabulary,
All starting with "F...ing C...'s"!
We heard his morning matins, you see,
His vespers were hard to believe,
'Twas sociolinguistic acquisition, prithee,
His jaded look at society,
Swearing is cathartic, but so lazy,
Yes, old cocky had such a vocabulary!
Last winter, I refilled my blackened quill with
a dose of your sensual sonnets,
allowing your soothing voice to be the maestro
of moaning moonlight,
reawakening a cathartic infatuation.
Drunk on symphonies that you’ve orchestrated,
a throbbing thirst instills
tantalizing tercets into my trembling veins.
I submissively let every ounce of my skin
be stroked by your titillating tongue,
tracing the milky quartz trails of
goosebumps you’ve ignited,
leaving me intoxicated in your
mellifluous world of poetic pulses,
where your honey-dipped fingers strum
the script of my love-struck soul.
Awakening fervent fireflies to flutter,
flickering luscious sparks,
while cocooned in electric feathers,
caressing the internal warmth
of wildfire whispers.
Yet, there is something about
the way the skies burst euphoric writings
on your untold rivers~
never revealed, forever lost
in the silence of sultry suppression~
luring me to follow the magnetic rhythm
of your restless roseate runes.
I will someday kiss you into written poetry,
when I take a breath
to climax as couplets intertwined,
screaming caffeinated stars in hypnotic cadence.
The seeds of your love
will illuminate pining petals,
pressed between velvety sheets
of lunar-glazed pillows,
and the cinnamon sun of a sage dawn,
awaiting drizzling diamonds
with sinful secrets etched from sweat and tears,
teasing the melted twilight
that flows behind periwinkle prose.
So place me on your empty canvas
of nocturnal stanzas.
Paint me with tender rhymes,
flowing like fluorescent ink,
bleeding from your aesthetic baton,
so effortlessly,
forever aligned as soulmates,
tied to the gossamer tunes of timeless harmony.
Quite mild winter weather bourne this way
within environs of Perkiomen Valley
since latter months of 2021,
but also since me
January 13th, 2022 birthday,
I predict minimal snowfall
for remainder of 2022 winter,
what with just couple weeks
until Spring Equinox.
Within lil more'n a fortnight,
as tempestuous slam
dunk March madness closes curtain call
“in like a lion, out like a lamb,”
twill hove tested survivability,
asper flora, thru harsh winter, and
those most see ring robust will pass exam
unbridled love bursting asunder
cavorting, frolicing, instigating
wham bam thank you ma'am
lollygagging, orchestrating, romancing
while birds and bees pollinate jam
ming, humming, fostering sensational slam
dance, where flora lifts, wafts, and yawps
invoke warble, gurgle,
burble from baby in pram.
Meanwhile latent Mother Earth
quite pregnant with
multifarious potent new life
vermilion, violet ready to burst
asunder from Gaia's girth
dramatically altering landscape
with expectant birth
of animal and plant species distilled
within crucible, sans terra firma hearth
quite a contrast, when
polar vortex wrought dearth
whence Spring begets plenti
kindling, snapchatting, and twittering mirth.
Also uniquely designed hue man
denizens of every stripe nurse
tender affection expressing
amorous poetry and verse
rejoicing, the dead of winter,
and attendant frostbite curse
frozen folks felled, thence carried
away in horse drawn hearse,
where heavy grief ameliorated
as natural holistic
narcotic brings pacific
balm, calm, and psalm snapping,
crackling, and popping
wide web with electric
ambient ancient, yet contemporary music
punctuating the air with lulling lyric
since time immemorial
recognized as greatest soporific
equally savored, whether
devout or atheistic
nonpareil eclectic dreamy
harmonic melange cathartic
aural, diurnal, integral
quintessentially converging harmonic,
democratic, and anthemic
congregation replete with fantastic
incorporation, viz diversity galactic!
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
"Cruel birds—ravens—but wise. And creatures should be loved for their wisdom if they cannot be loved for kindness."
- Hannah Kent
My lover's demons are like ravenous ravens.
Her love is a hand grenade triggering exploding emotions,
massacring words into silent suppression
but beyond the threshold of her eyes,
there's a scarlet love silhouette,
hoping upon hope for expression,
to reset her reality - to express her freedom of spirit.
I ask the one who feels the tremors of my heart,
why are you afraid of happiness?
We were not made to be broken,
yet we fracture a little everyday.
Although you are fragile like a paper plane,
the world with you and me can soar
against turbulence in the world's playground.
In darkness I'll be your harbinger of crescent moons,
as my heart is a complex phenomenon,
yearning to be special in your ordinary sighs.
I hunger for you to leave me breathless,
as internal invisible wounds don't heal,
when we are lost in an ocean of souls,
but empathy has an evergreen effervescence,
so I'll radiate light into your wilted moonflower eyes,
watching them glow like dancing streetlights.
In the angst of absence and abandonment,
I've lost all desire to bleed,
searching for harmony in music's salvation,
but it only brings broken strings,
as I'm sleeping to the rhythm of heartache.
My muse serenades in melancholic melodies,
composing a confusing chaos concerto,
searching for pamphlets of medleys
with symphonies of pleasure.
What are we,
but poetic victims of circumstances,
versifying verses which unravel my mysteries.
Maybe in a peaceful tomorrow,
I'll write again,
but today,
I'll bathe in raindrops of hope,
illuminating in a rainbow of reveries.
I believe in magic when I envision your cathartic haze.
I know you are obsessed with forever,
but time silently escapes whilst we are apart.
If not in this temporary existence,
then in the afterlife, meet me in heaven,
where we can rise with eternal ethereal sunrises,
because your celestial eyes betray your mortal guise.
I could never write a poem as perfect as you.
With or without me,
we'll be immortally together in heartbeats,
where there is poetry,
there will always be love.
Sensing your nostalgic angst,
I’m gripped with sentimental reminiscences
transcending melancholic predicaments
of yesterdays' significant moments
along crossroads' decisions*
yet beckoning past decades’ jubilation-mirth
in loving relationships wrought by the Lord---
Here am I, your photo album, offering you
my gracious cathartic assistance
amidst the soothing therapy
of radiant flashback scenes
freely allowing you to shed tears
and, or beam with exuberant glee---
Keep me serving
as your steadfast knocker of memory**
when oblivion attempts to prevail in your mind
despite your heart’s defiance.
*Joel 3:14 Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision: for the day of the LORD is near in the valley of decision.
**Psalm 145:7 They shall abundantly utter the memory of thy great goodness, and shall sing of thy righteousness.
September 6, 2019
Edited on September 19, 2019
2nd place, "Crossroads" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 9/22/2019.
A milling crowd (aren't they all),
I call my name
then try my real name
then a made-up name.
The crowd separates reluctantly,
A man with an ever changing face steps forward.
I intently recognize myself,
a self of many ages, some even before birth.
I am emotional, this is a cathartic moment
my eyes are pinballs being flipped
in a lit-up cosmic game.
The person is my personal
imago/, amigo, avatar,
my part-time impersonator.
This is no time for self analysis,
I take him by the hand
lead him into my mind, claim him,
show him as I am now
in the eye of a cracked mirror.
His face has stopped fluttering through time,
his eyes are now moth orbs
as golden as an astronauts visor.
I reflect upon them like the sun.
He tells me that all of his personas,
all of his faceted me-ness
revolves around an inner star,
then walks absent mindlessly
back into the crowd.
I turn to look at the rest of the world,
it is a radiant carousel painted upon
an endlessly nocturnal canvas.
The canvas and the painting
were created by an unknown artist,
one still waiting to be discovered.