Long Condemned Poems
Long Condemned Poems. Below are the most popular long Condemned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Condemned poems by poem length and keyword.
A thief, a murderer, an arsonist
Before all these I was someone’s child
An embezzler, a liar, a con artist
Before all this I had big hopes and plans
Yes I did it
That I don't deny
But what gives you the right to decide
If I'm worthy of my life
Pretenders are worse than murderers
Yet you sit so highly on your horse
Perched pretty on your saddle
I, not worthy of the scum on your sole
Throw stones and leave me for dead
Like you've done so many others
What goes around comes around
Soon it'll be your glass house
There goes the bell
It's time for the daily head check
Let's see how many of the ones you condemned
Have found their way to death
Even good persons will be judged for their character,
for not having done enough when they could have;
ah, the judgment of the condemned will be harsher...
some believe it's a bluff, and they continue to misbehave!
There are different ways of giving,
it depends on how a heart is feeling;
the most generous give abundantly
and those less kind give meagerly!
Then who should be judged harshly?
The ones who hesitate to demonstrate kindness,
and are motived by their eagerness,
or those who are cold and refuse to show mercy?
In the eyes of God generosity is very delightful
when a hungry mouth devours a meal and is full;
be generous and give away some of your riches...
if abundance has blessed you beyond expectations!
Even good people will be judged for their character,
they might be humble, but their joy is undeniable;
everybody doubts that opening hearts has its rewards...
won't they feel a tenderness that is louder than cheer?
If on this planet
The secret of life had never been born
If evolution hadn't yielded humanity
If the Trojans had refused to accept
The gift of Greeks
And Brutus hadn't joined the conspiracy
To kill Caesar
If Pilate hadn't condemned Christ
And Henry the Eighth wasn't taken with Ann Boleyn
If the Church hadn't burned Giordano Bruno
And the sword of Laertes wasn't poisoned
If Columbus hadn't searched for India in the west
And de Grouchy's army wasn't late at Waterloo
If Hitler never had his crazy ideas
And communism had never become a suicidal monster
If men hadn't destroyed the planet on which they live
And nations were never divided
By religion, ethnicity and money
If you hadn't said "yes" to me
On that blessed early day
All in this world would have changed
And someone else
Different from me
Would be singing this song
Differently
Form:
Not to be taken lightly, I burnt all my clothes
Cut the tattoos off my back, tore pins from my nose
Foraged for food particles, where wild beasts reposed
Lapped water vapour off thorns, when the thirst arose
My identity gone, I herded mountain goats
Built a makeshift altar, one by one, slit their throats
Looking to the heavens, chanting primeval quotes
Tell me what to do, this sacrifice I devote
But silence returned, I knew nothing else mattered
The goats now all dead, my hands blooded and spattered
A local tribe watched on, their souls not so shattered
Idolised me, then to the four winds they scattered
After two score and ten, they returned unforetold
Carrying symbols, textbooks, diamonds, and gold
Smiling in joy, I asked what stories they behold
All wrote versions of my life in books, but mistold
Some had butchered nations, said it was in my name
Others brainwashed little children, feeling no shame
The rest knocked on doors, telling lies they heal the lame
Scamming billions of sesterces, their one true aim
I condemned the lies, but was a very bad call
They burst into laughter, and pointed to their haul
Just then everything made sense, as I do recall
Killing goats made me, the biggest scapegoat of all
With a roof over your head,
A key to your door
Fire in the grate
Clippie rugs on the floor
The countryside to roam
A dog by his side
A boy may be poor but
He’s still got h!is pride.
Another spring approaches
Weather more and more mild
Memories rush back from
When I was a child
More than fifty years ago
My dad used to say
Nights were drawing out by
A cock stride a day.
A man of the land once of
The shire drawn plough
Earning his weekly pittance
By the sweat of his brow.
A man of his time when
Most of the working nation
Were condemned to poverty
And blatant exploitation
My mam and dad never
Ever had a lot
But seemed so happy
With what little they’d got
And I had a childhood rich
In everything but wealth
Loved and wanted and
Blessed with good health.
Times have changed and today,
Poor materially have much more,
But the bailiff does at times seem
Never far from a worker’s door,
And I never thought I’d see the day
When a worker gave thanks
For the charity donations
From now essential food banks.
Mithering - North England dialect - worrying , complaining, countering
I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.
The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.
When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.
I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.
Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.
I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?
The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.
So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.
I was born in a world ruled by emperors and organized power.
I was Armed with a spirit of combat and weapons of warfare.
Resistance to the death led me to be captured and imprisoned.
There was one, Jesus, whom I had heard about but had no use
for him. Notwithstanding, here we were, accused criminals of capital
offenses. Authorities of the Jews preferred my release and not Jesus'.
We both were revolutionaries, but our methods were different.
His was a revolutionary plan based on love. Mine was a plan of
revolution to defeat the Romans by any means necessary. I sought
to destroy a system made by men of greed and power. He sought
to save all people from their sins. My crimes were against the kingdom
of Ceasar. Technically, his crimes were against the kingdom of Satan.
Before my arrest, I was very busy seeking to overthrow the
Romans, but not so busy that I was never aware of the ministry
of Jesus as he went about doing good. It never occurred to me that
we would meet, but here we were at the crossroads of our lives.
There were no words spoken between us, but I heard life-changing
words penetrating the very core of my soul.
So, as I freely walked away from my prison chains, I stared at
Jesus and wondered which of us was really free. Every fiber of my
being was wrapped in confusion and filled with questions, and I was
forced to deal with his claims of Deity.
Moreover, I was pardoned and released by a mob. Jesus was condemned
by a kangaroo court and crucified. I was released to fight again. Jesus
was crucified so that all mankind might be able to live forever.
032124PS
7/18/21
Foot on the gas ped
Often I went fast and sped
Then crashed and bled
So there was a lot of red
Occasionally got torn up and shred
Of course, could've done it differently instead
Does no good to pretend
Got to keep on maintaining tread
While way out in the fen
Felt dead inside, would I ever live again?
Saw it through until the bitter end
No message I'm trying to send
Ain't going to budge or bend
So don't try to condescend
Because you won't be able to comprehend
Don't believe everything you read
F*** all that s*** that him and her said
Always stupid drama over bread
People quick to lose their cool and then their head
Next thing you know it's either them or the other that is dead
Got little after fulfilling my pledge
It's still B.S. on either side of the hedge
What made me condemned?
Hanging on by a thread
Always standing atop a ledge
And on the edge
Feeling closer to the end
Go ahead and allege
Typical for ladies and men
Been occurring since way back when
Wishing that you would drop dead
Foolishness led to the death bed
Had it all a house, money and a wife that was a redhead
Many best friends
But shorter than expected I met the end
Never know when to keep quiet
What a hoot and riot
Putting it out in the open instead of keeping it private
Humans these days are far too biased
So obsessed with prices
Far too reliant on appliances
And devices
Coming in all forms, shapes and sizes
Spreading like a virus
The cause of a crisis
Is it all truly priceless?
Does no good to be indecisive
On either side of the horizon
Could lead to becoming lifeless
The cold night with the lights shining in the city
it’s a good time when everyone looks pretty.
Bottle breaking
smoke swapping
cops cracking.
The night is young like I was,
inevitably invincible
like the immature mind produces an unnatural high.
Searching
wanting
lusting,
for the things that keep on burning.
The juvenile exposure built my mind yet pruned it
of it’s innocence and doubled it’s experience.
Bathroom sleeping
tequila snatching
bloodied fists.
The atmosphere darkens
the attitudes sharpen
and lives are finally ruined.
Rome wasn’t built in a day but after it’s demise,
it’s walls were never the same.
Now the uncontrolled has sought control
from the dangers that plague the world she once lived in.
The consequences so hard to burden that every place is hard to stand in.
The bitter sweet memories still fresh that I can see them,
but they stay hidden in my mind as if satan condemned them.
Carruthers he shot, and mother she fell,
And stunned Elliot went for his gun,
The father went down, hit in the heart,
And the bad man searched for the son.
But his luck no longer would run.
For Elliot’s gun barked with a flash,
And Carruther’s jerked back with his head,
He pitched to the ground, didn’t even moan,
The blackguard was already dead.
The floor of the cabin stained red.
Elliot turned and shifted his gun,
Onto that damnable, young whore
She shrieked and cried,”Wait, please stop!
You need to now something more.
If you kill me, you’ll add to this horror!”
“I need you to know, you seed has took root
And quickened deep within my womb!
If you shoot me now, your own child will
Be condemned to darkness and doom.
Please, think about what your doing!”
Elliot, he held back, eyes blazing rage,
And jerked the damned girl to her feet,
He marched her down to Marshall Dale,
And there he made her repeat,
The tale of Carruthers’ dark deed.
The people, incensed, cried for her to hang,
A fate she so richly deserved.
But her stomach did swell, and everyone saw
The truth of her desperate words.
The child would not be left to burn.
For months she sat in Skagway’s small jail,
She was alone, hated, and despised.
Elliot stayed clear, too consumed with hate,
To ever venture on inside,
He couldn’t risk facing her eye-to-eye.
She faded away after her son was born,
And though it made sound perverse,
Many have said it was better for her,
To pass away from childbirth,
For the rope awaited the damned girl.
Elliot took his son, and moved far away
And dedicated his life to farming.
But he could not shake the stubborn thought,
That the damned girl had taken on last thing:
He never got to watch her swing.