Long Chuck Poems
Long Chuck Poems. Below are the most popular long Chuck by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chuck poems by poem length and keyword.
How many grave sites should be prepared for me?
Just one. For Robert Johnson, there were three,
all in the Mississippi Delta: Morgan City, Quito,
and (near) Greenwood. Which is right? Do we KNOW?
Those who have taken the time to do research
believe Little Zion Missionary Baptist Church
near Greenwood is most likely. At age 27, in 1938,
he died near that town--so young, with talent so great.
In the early 1900’s, this youngster’s genius was unfurled.
As blues singer, guitarist, and lyricist, he gifted the world
with recordings exhibiting style that has been admired
widely and emulated by popular performers who aspired
to greater fame. They achieved the kudos they desired.
Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, and Chuck Berry are among those
influenced by his style. Every admirer who knows
the legend that ambition drove Johnson to sell his soul
to the Devil for greater talent would surely say his goal
was reached without Old Scratch playing a role.
What caused the death of the “Cross Road Blues”
and “Sweet Home Chicago” performer? There are clues
centering around his unbridled boozing and womanizing.
Did a jealous husband poison his whiskey upon realizing
a flirtation or worse, just as Johnson's star was rising?
Or did he die of syphilis? These stories floated around,
and others. Thirty years later, a death certificate was found,
stating no cause of death. Some facts, we may never know.
It IS known that this musical master's climb to fame was slow.
It's nothing new that, after death, renown may grow.
Johnson's posthumous claim to fame is no big mystery.
Beginning in the nineteen sixties, the world would see
a surge of interest in his music. To Eric Clapton, he seems
"The most important blues singer that ever lived." Teams
of researchers have tried to capture his life and dreams.
King of the Delta Blues Singers, a collection of his best,
was produced by Columbia in 1961. Writers faced a test:
dealing with conflicts and gaps in accounts while collecting
information for biographies and films. While "connecting
the dots," they learned that sources require dissecting.
Death, no respecter of talent or youth, is bold,
stalking and striking down rich or poor, young or old.
Mysteries of life and death often remain unsolved,
though diligent research may be involved.
Please read and rate. I know it's a bit long but it is worth reading.
Our relationship was fun but after all we've been through
I can finally say this is my last good-bye to you.
Almost two weeks and not one word, you just don't know my pain.
How I called you and got no answer 25 times in the course of just three days.
I gave you all of me but that wasn't enough still
and I thought that if I waited you would feel what I feel.
I use to cut for you one hundred percent and now I'm stuck feeling sorry for
myself.
because if I needed your support but you didn't gain from it, you didn't give me
any help.
I gave you my heart because I thought you deserved it but now I have to take it.
because if I let you keep on with this fake sh...t, you will eventually break it.
I thought I had lost my opportunity with you because of my bad luck.
But you told me to have patience and the reason? Because you're Chuck.
you said I didn't have to fear lies, deceit, or deception.
But a pair of lips will say anything and I guess yours are no exception.
and you decided not to decide because you had the best of both worlds:
One for passion, one for obedience; but two hella-yella girls.
Like a delicate rose, you left me untended and so I gradually wilted.
I had such passionate emotion for you but you finally killed it.
and even then I knew that I was probably just some one to get you off.
But you made me so ecstatic, I dared to pay the cost.
and my heart grew more attached to you every time we f...cked.
But I told myself that I was safe because the last person to hurt me would be
Chuck.
And now I want to say lets just be friends but I'm so hurt that it just won't work.
You had no motive for what you did now I rate you as a jerk, no, something
worse.
I would lay in bed at night and wonder why what you did had no emotional effect
on you.
But I finally found out that I'm not the first because you have hurt another girl too.
You left her heart broken because you chose to choose De.
and if you did that to her then you'll definitely do it to me.
After ten months of creeping, crawling and all of that bullsh..t.
I'm finally burned out and so now I must quit.
I waisted almost a whole year and I have nothing to show for it.
to be continued
names have been changed for my sake
Every morning at a quarter to six, I can hear my he him trotting down the hallway to the bed where I lay, shriveled up under my weighted blanket, so fat and un-tall.
There’s a part of me that should feel sorry for my little Cowboy husband Joe, but the other part is as angry as Sophie Dog, who snarls and snaps when she hears him in the hall.
“Time to get up!” he says in a sing-songy way, being a nice guy, who truly, only ever wanted to be a child, outside, who could laugh and play like a kid with honey bun food.
“Son of a mule’s *******,” I say, in the kindest cowboy-kind of way, knowing he’s going to feed Shark next, and he’d better tip toe as I am in that kind of I-HATE-EVERYBODY-KIND-of-Mood.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
“I saw that the baby opossum on the porch was out of food again, so I banged on the window, and he ran off with that little hop-skip he has,” Joe babbles on. “After he left, I took some cat food out. He’s eating it now.” Joe is wearing his best hat, and boots, but I don’t give them no mind.
Son of a horse’s behind, does he always have to yap like a coy dog? I think as I try to get a growling Sophie dog’s butt off of the covers I’m trying to put back over my head, so I can have some peace and QUIET; “Get OUT OF HERE!” I yell, I’m 11 minutes behind!”
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Sophie and I get woked up three more times by him, and we chase him out each time, baring our teeth. It reminds me of my early days with my mother who used to be just this damned happy and annoying in the morning. She used to give us pancake rolls. Which means she used to jump on our bed and roll on us making us extra angry before we left for school.
The last time, the final time, the I mean it this time, he brings me my usual Chuck Wagon Caren is hungry as a giant Stegosaurus on speed breakfast. Five pounds of hash-browns, a three egg omelet with bacon, and it damn well better be the exact temp I like, he has learned the hard way Sophie and I are
Very particular about the temp of our bacon. He takes off his 10 gallon hat, sitting it on the bed, and says “anything else, my ladies?” Before we can speak, he magically produces my jalapeno peppers which we dump lavishly over our hash-browns. Yes, he is the perfect cowboy for this fool.
Big Joe.
Big Joe.
Big Bad Joe.
Hot as hell, emotions fire the flames,
Nervous about meeting doctors, nurses,
Curtain separates them from congregation,
The veil is not torn in two, but steamy adulation,
Courts their friendship sessions to distance,
Bible fanatic from mum, with a secular pretence:
Stationed to obey that mile that you go,
Faithful to womb child who does overthrow,
That divine validation of mundane everyday life,
Which never does blot his copybook, he’s your invisible wife,
Just because nothing bad happens, then he’s loving,
To be a feature of your relationships and thinking,
So good to give you a furtherer of your animations,
So fine to set converts and following by time within your devotions:
Baby born, and the first thing they said was Jesus!
But I did adjust like a jet, right arm spasm, religion to suss,
Because i had not related perfectly to my mum at all in her beauty,
By getting into a tizzy, a fix about her vaginal cavity:
The umbilical chord did suffocate around my neck,
Three times, and three times to many, ‘cos i hit the deck,
Put in an incubator, a machine my life to sustain,
Where i didn’t depend on maternal caresses to obtain,
That blooming continuation that does greatly assure you of your future,
You expectations, your understandings and boundaries to nurture;
The machine of oxygen and warmth did suffice,
To love this new born child as cold as ice,
To spiritual things and to worlds unknown,
By humankind who only know hell when it’s thrown;
And as I did lurk in my hospital bedroom, or ward,
Like a businessman who is playing the sure investment card:
I wished so much that black book to just disappear,
As it only wrought despair, anxiety and tumultuous fear;
My parents friends, stone cold as delinquent thieves,
Prayed though those days as they sang “Bringing In The Sheaves,”
Whilst appendices of nurses added that they’d do,
Convincing my parents, including doctor-trained dad, that I’d pull through,
They just read the bible to me, over and over,
Through glass ventilator, that separator which did cover,
Happy as chuck, pleased as punch and relaxed enough, in that clever machine,
I clearly didn’t see what they did mean,
Because I was dressed in the NHS, nothing less,
Never this sin to render or confess.
Here another season has gone
And winter is back to this town
I’ve always been afraid of thunder and sparkle
‘Cause its rumbling reminds me that I'm a loner
You say you’re here to watch over me
That you‘ll never forsake me
And if I fall you’d be there to catch me
But it’s scaring me
Your warmth is shattering me
Why do you have to be that kind to me?
Why do you have to live only for me?
Why you never get furious and always forgive me?
I know that you know I ain’t faithful
I know that you know my heart is playful
I know that you know my love was never truthful
Your eyes smile when they embrace my face
And my mind is thinking about all those pieces of crap
I’ve been tossing behind your back
But you’re always here to chuck me under the chin
Are you aware? Are you an angel or maybe a saint?
All these times I’ve been lying to you saying I'm heading to my household
While I was sleeping with another boo
All these wakeful nights you spent wide awake waiting for me to come home
While I was splashing out and clubbing with the bad crew
All those moments you were proudly calling me lover
But to my world you were my brother
All those kisses and touches you were longing for with me
While I was sharing them all along that narrow alley
All those late night texts and calls, the smell of cigs on my clothes
You knew them all but you never told a soul
Sometimes I question myself,
Is this your way to strike back?
Are you torturing your core because you don’t want to lose?
Do you know that everything you do is leaving me ashamed?
Do you know how much I’m hating myself?
Today, under this cloudy sky
I'm confessing all my fallacies
I’ll break out my iniquitous mysteries
Yes, I'm the worst girl ever existed
And because you aren’t me not like the others
I won’t let you abuse your purity with a player
I could be anything but a human
It’d sound cheesy if I avow my love to you
It won’t change the fact that I'm a ****
Witch like me, cannot overstep love’s zone
So baby please don’t believe these stupid songs
Love can’t change people if they don’t want
Yes, I'm a cheater that’s why I'm leaving you now
‘Cause you deserve to live better and I deserve to cry and suffer
You deserve to be loved harder and I deserve to be alone forever
How empty can an inbox possibly be?
Not unlike a door..... practically off at hinges
The paint is definitely peeling
More than one shutter has fallen astray.
One piece at a time
Have you ever seen that?
How old houses....
the shutters give way one slat at a time
It's almost like watching a clock tick
After 1 year the slat on the front shutter drops by 1/4
of an inch
By year two there are three slats on the front shutter and four on the back falling falling slowly
Drop an inch...drop an inch
small little pieces of wood losing their ballast
By year five the paint's chipping on all of the shutters
you can tell they were all red once or some dreadful pungent green
Then great shards of paint seem to start clinging off of the clapboards too
Can see it almost like a song
plunky pock rock or a slow lanquid sad ballad
a song of one lost a sea or to storm or just decay
the first chip of paint is the first note
and then all of a sudden the whole house seems to want to join in and it's chip chip chip , chuck,chuck pluck pluck plunky plunkity and it's a symphony of lost paint chips like raindrops sound in an empty metal pail
Neglect
nobody cares ....that the shutters are falling apart
and no one cares that the symphony of chips of paint has begun
because nobody lives there anymore and no one is listening except fro teh occasional drive by
If that house was an inbox.
It would understand mine
Such
an empty house
When you're the first person to enter
an empty house...
It's like you're swirling the dust
of the only thing that lives there
elves and fairies and dust dune devils
it's like they know you're there
But there is just the eerie silence
The elves, sprites, ghosts and memories cling to what remains of the tattered curtain...awaiting a...curtain call?
The house is never ever really empty
The walls remember the hands
The ash remembers the fire
The sink can still taste the water and feel the rust
Even the dust on the floorboards remembers what it was like to be mud on a boot or a cell of her skin
An empty house has more inhabitants
than my inbox
in the beginning....My inbox had a voice
Maybe even my in-box remembers
how it once said
"You've got mail"
In a drunken stupor, I fall down on my comforter
Baby blue sky covered in fluffy clouds of cotton.
I kick off my shoes, faded pink chuck Taylors
And make clumsy work of my shirt buttons.
I slip an oversized shirt over my head, Bart Simpson,
And pull it straight passed over my bra and panties, past my knees.
Now in the dark, on my bed, I hear the door creak open.
I turn to see your silhouette, and I hear the door behind you locking.
I sat up, before you lunged on top of me, and smacked me in the face.
I tried to push you off, but a little girl is nothing against a man.
Fear pinned me down with your arms, the look in your eye was crazed.
I yelled out as you punched me again, before stifling my breath with your hand.
I felt your fingers probe underneath my shirt, rough and groping.
The straps tore at my flesh as you ripped my bra apart.
I tried to push your hand off my face, I was having trouble breathing
But when you took your hand off and I gasped for air, it fell back against my cheek hard
I stopped trying to push you away, tears streaming, afraid you’d hit me again.
I bucked when your course fingers pinched, it only seemed to excite you more.
I cringed as you raked your nails deep down my stomach digging in.
You stopped at the top of my panties before yanking them till they tore.
Panic sliced through me as I felt you unclasping your jeans, understanding swept me.
I knew then what you intended to do and my blood ran cold at the thought.
You took your hand off of my mouth and threatened to kill me if I screamed
But I yelled anyway begging for help, preying that you would be caught.
I was silenced by a stinging blow that sent me hard against the head board.
Too disoriented by it to yell again before you were done taking off my t shirt.
Through blurry eyes and mind I felt your eager hands pillage and explore.
I was smacked again for screaming at how badly your fingers inside me hurt.
You showed no mercy as I screamed in pain against the palm of your hand.
You only continued to probe and play, talking dirty to me, making me talk back.
Through bloodied lips and wrenching pain I was abused by this man
He made me say unmentionable things about him, while he cruelly laughed.
Though amply rested, I still yawn
And feel energized after
light exercise doth spawn
break through viz mental impasse,
where endeavor to coax
germinating ideas to sprout
about as successful as
buzzfeeding, jump/kick starting
rooting brown lawn
to whether drought.
Long fostering literary creativity
analogous to prying open
figurative curtain drawn
shut tight within
thy noggin unresponsive
even when brute force
strongly applied, but still...
no progress (for aging Pilgrim)
made come crack of dawn,
thus I temporarily abandon intent.
An effort to craft satisfactory poem or prose,
(which coveted, kindled, unexpected...
futile endeavor deluges me when
least able to jot down eureka,
whereby brainstorm burst adrip
saturating yours truly head to toes
dribbling out nostrils,
asper my porpoise size bottle nose,
hence this feeble effort to appease.
No expected attaboy, kudos, bravoes...
discerning metaphorical whaling expedition
beseeching, imploring, soaking...
mine mindscape with
profuse voluminous wisdom
sans anonymous followers
waiting for me to compose
usual meaningless gibberish or
rare profound nugget of wisdom to disclose.
While thrashing within cyber sea,
possibly abandoning ambition to compose
superbly laced, ginned, coined...
poetic adage gee oh
into magnum opus masterpiece
eye catchingly exotic creation
exquisite as silk negligee pantyhose
(yea...perhaps yours truly
will also send near nude selfie,
a worse fate than death
cab for cutie)
and chuck stock inhibition
brokering favorable frescoes
tattooed across flesh
accentuating anatomical contours of flab
wharf flexing muscles simulates geckoes,
(albeit selling progressive insurance)
appearing to slither across body electric
predictably ejaculating Freudian peccadillos,
now bolt upright - ******** awakened,
no longer sleepy,
but dwarfed by giant spuds,
no small potatoes
eh...yar right to deem this poker face
eccentric - born (free) this way,
how Elsa to explain (without lion)
rambling riotous rumination
one among many bumptious desperadoes,
and oh...mooch hoe gracias reading poem
bumbling, degenerating, fizzling...
into lobbying primal salvoes.
Telepathic Confusion
It was a tense and passionate gaze.
It locked me in a captivating trance, drawing me in with its irresistible energy.
How could I feel the energy from over here?
Despite my initial hesitance, I found myself unable to resist the pull.
I'm shy but wide-eyed.
It got me wondering why.
Why would I suddenly feel such a pull?
It was as if my mature and composed exterior had melted away, leaving a sense of curiosity and vulnerability I hadn't felt in years.
My mind said don't be another fool.
Besides, this must be a silly phase.
I'm too old and mature.
I can't think of childish fantasies.
I would tell myself that it is impossible to feel such taboo things.
It is impossible to feel such things as accurate.
I can't even say it.
My Tongue twisted.
Even my mind tells me not to do it.
My feelings were intense; it never even made much sense.
The heart has a communication telepath.
The heart's invisible dimension leads straight to your path.
The sensation was inexplicable yet undeniably real. My heart and mind were engaged in a silent telepathic conversation, leading me down a path I never expected to explore.
I had to question if I was a true manic.
Oh wait, I'm not manic.
As much as I tried to rationalize and dismiss it, the undeniable chemistry lingered, leaving me exposed and uncertain.
I'm in a panic.
I can't believe it.
It's really happening.
It's an unrequited, weird, and daunting chemistry.
Of all the people, I'm feeling relatively weak as a dead tree.
It still has piqued my curiosity.
Despite my reservations, I knew I had to confront these unfamiliar and intense emotions with audacity and curiosity rather than. Shying away from them or pretending they didn't exist.
I'll reach out and truly see.
It was time to acknowledge and embrace this uncharted emotional territory.
I'm a fool, and I'm lying.
I could never have such audacity.
I'm timid, and I'll revoke.
I'll turn these feelings from warm to cold.
I'll act like I still don't know at all.
I'll block it out.
Chuck it up.
These are the feelings thrown at me that elevated how I viewed love.
These are the words that inspired me to put everything on pause.
The way she wore Chuck Taylors
and wide leg JNCO jeans
with a backpack and a skateboard
your average 90's teen.
Music meant life those days
with a wide range of variety
in my CD collection
from Etta James to Rage Against the Machine
but Sublime will always be my favorite obsession
To get by i started getting high
creating a lack of motivation
I stopped trying to try.
Class of '99
a whole year ahead of my peers
young and lost without direction
began the "adulting" part of my years
Mistakes by the many
not yet learning from the pain
Waisted time spent hurting
instead of the wisdom there to gain
By the time I understood
Its not what we say but what we do
and it all happens for a reason
so we can grow thru what we go thru
Maturity isnt ones right
And timing isnt set in stone
for noone can learn a lesson for you
its a journey meant to venture alone
The struggle gets so real at times
its appealing to not give a
but giving no s at all
leaves you growing stale and stuck
Let your words and your actions
be conducive to the future u want to live
Keeping in mind that those who recieve the most
are the ones who chose first to give
Repeataive patterns with reason
as stated previously
is more than just an issue its also now opportunity
When.
Not if.
Life gets harder and seems unreal
Simply adjust how you look at things
and youll also change how you feel
Always accept whatever happens
dont hold onto the past
Learn and let go
or itll pass by way too fast
Live with no regrets.
Live with no shame.
Cause it dont matter how you feel
Its how you play the game
My final piece of knowledge to share
is dont be so hard on yourself
With all the beauty found in the struggle
You discover the most valuable kind of wealth
Agree or disagree
I learned all this the hardest of ways
But the years i belived i knew everything
were thankfully just a phase
When i accepted i knew nothing
and ultimatly had more to learn
I stared listening to understand
instead of listenning to respond in turn
And age is just a number
that time uses to tell us a lie
Cause no matter how old i get
Ill be rockin my Chuck Taylors till i die.