Long Confession Poems
Long Confession Poems. Below are the most popular long Confession by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confession poems by poem length and keyword.
Words are enough.
They don't some overdramatized definition of them,
Don't be a fool to explain it to me.
I'd rather die a lonely and cruel death, by my own hands.
Words —
They don't come easy, do they?
The blurry effect on my left iris left me partially blind.
It tears my other eye to see it in the mirror.
Words, they are spat out like fetid, rotting chunder,
Why do they taste so putrid and smell so obnoxious?
When I try to let them out, they escape through my eye,
Leaking and spewing festering dross.
Technicolor yawn mimics the man in the mirror and then
He would call in sick the next day.
As the pus decay in the drought and barren land of my eye,
I was recommended using Ciprofloxacin.
Words —
Words like "I need help" and "why does it hurt so bad?"
I wish I never knew how to speak.
Instead of the infection of my worm-eaten and vile eye,
I desiderate it be my mouth rather.
Words like these are what made me feel how I feel now,
Enervated and debilitated.
That Moment
Amazing the things
that work — and don’t work
A love that’s given
and not returned
The time that measures
but never stops
That moment wished for
forever spurned
One hope that lingers
— forget me not
**
This Dream
My pen is my instrument
the letters my band
the readers my audience
each note to command
My prose a piano
my verse in the strings
Percussion conducting
— this dream to begin
**
The Balance
As thoughts and feelings
joined as one
A light went off ...
I saw the sun
The balance I had
always craved
Enveloped me
— the debt repaid
**
Thoughts On Trial
Academic court-marshal
tenure is lost
Degrees are rescinded
peer reviews squawk
Doctorate cancelled
fellowships mired
Theories in limbo
— students on fire
**
Rejection
You can’t cry
anymore ...
The past ill-begotten
the present in sin
You can’t cry
anymore ...
Your tears a confession
— rejected within
**
Estranged Bedfellows
Ten years later
both still proud
Sleeping apart
saying out loud
Threats
of indictment
Fingers
of blame
Marriage
despondent
Sharing
— a name
**
Forced Recon
Seize every
moment
Or others
will not
Your voice
is the trigger
That fire’s
their lot
Give yourself
credit
Where credit
is due
But lead
from the front
Intrepid
— and true
**
Centuries ago, women suspected of witchcraft
Almost always met a fiery end
This brutal practiced seemed daft
As rules for proving witchcraft would never bend
Women with a mole or a scar
Is all the proof they needed
It was really quite bizarre
As common sense was never heeded
Torturous methods were used to force a confession
This of course would seal the woman's fate
Witches seemed to be their obsession
No mercy came at any rate
Echoes linger where injustice once thrived
As history turns its faded page
For many justice is still deprived
Are we moving from or toward a darker age?
They carved their names in rust before the steel was forged.
A Saturday baptized in neon, Beer, LIIT and bad timing.
One table for strangers,
one curse wearing the mask of fate.
He sat there like the silence before an air raid,
eyes buried in bloodsport,
a man too still to know he was already the disaster.
She was someone else’s ghost,
dragging a dying love behind her like broken chains.
He was the fire escape she wasn’t supposed to find.
While mouths collided around them,
They built a cathedral from quiet conversations.
Then poison flooded her veins,
and his hands became the rails that kept her calm.
He carried her to the edge of oblivion,
again and again,
never once mistaking her weakness for permission.
She stole the cigarette from his lips.
He let the smoke die behind his ear
like surrender had finally learned his name.
She buried her head against his shoulder,
slept through the noise,
dreaming of a life that had no right to exist.
There was a moment,
her hands dragged his face toward hers,
their eyes locked like blades,
and the whole world held its breath.
But cowards survive.
So she looked away.
She laid her legs across his,
waiting for the monster everyone warned her about.
He never came.
Only the man.
At 2:00 am, the night slit its own throat.
She called his name into the darkness,
pulled him into one last embrace,
and left pieces of herself inside his heartbeat.
Morning arrived dressed as a hangover.
His missed call.
One message.
“Did you make it home safely?”
No confession has ever sounded louder.
Then came two weeks,
a lifetime compressed into unread playlists,
forgotten bands,
films no one else understood.
He called her a spell.
Said she had bewitched him.
He was written like the kind of man
women invent because reality disappoints them.
He made her feel beautiful
without ever asking for her body.
But every saint hides a wound,
every sinner carries a prayer.
He said she could save him.
Life laughed.
They ended before they ever began.
Now every song is a gravestone,
every melody another funeral
for the version of them
that only existed between midnight texts
and almost kisses.
If fate is cruel enough to resurrect strangers,
find Me again,
not to finish what We started,
but to mourn.
what never had the chance
to bleed.
I have become a witch
in the house of my own flesh.
My bathroom is an apothecary,
its shelves crowded with little promises.
Pills like teeth in amber bottles,
powders pale as ground bone,
and bitter tinctures swallowed
before the sun can witness my hunger.
Each morning, I kneel before the scale
like a sinner awaiting judgment.
The numbers rise and fall
with the indifference of executioners.
I have fed the cauldron everything.
My appetite.
My patience.
The softness of my stomach.
The girl in the photographs
whose waist I study like a sacred text.
I stir until my wrists ache,
until the steam wears my mother's voice,
until the bubbling blackness whispers
that beauty is only one more sacrifice away.
A little less bread.
A little more movement.
Another prescription.
Another promise.
The mirror hangs above the sink
like a window into a cursed kingdom.
Behind its silvered glass
lives a woman with my eyes
who measures every inch of me
against the ghost of who I was.
She calls it discipline.
I call it bargaining
with a god who keeps changing
the price of forgiveness.
And still, I return.
With my aching bones,
my tired blood,
my body swollen with histories
no stranger could ever see.
I have mistaken exhaustion for failure,
change for punishment,
and the stubborn work of staying alive
for something shameful.
Centuries after the pyres went cold,
I have learned to gather my own kindling.
No village waits outside my door.
No priest demands a confession.
No one has tied my wrists.
Yet every morning,
I drag myself before the mirror
and ask the woman inside it
what else she would have me burn.
Tonight, the cauldron is empty.
I stand over it
with trembling hands,
searching for one last ingredient.
And there, beneath the soot,
I find a small, unburned thing.
Not beauty.
Not forgiveness.
Only the terrible possibility
that there was never a curse
to lift.
Typewrite
Pacing back and forth these keys,
Like footfalls echoing on worn-out tracks—
The sights and landmarks in languid grey,
Burning with the sting of nostalgic pain,
Faces, voices, shadows etched in memory,
Untold stories thump against my brain
Like a retroactive typewriter,
Reminding me—
With every thud of the type slug,
Voices in these walls
Strike the ribbons of regret.
Scars printed in blue,
Hurts inked in red,
Fleeting across faces and lives,
The ribbons take the beat
Of my swag and gait—
That staccato rhythm
Of a past that won’t forget.
Thud tap, thud tap, ding!
And back again—
Like my aging heartbeat
On this old typewriter in motion,
The carriage bell,
Signaling the end of a line—
A moment of reckoning,
Yet back again: the carriage return,
Resetting for the next confession,
The next scar,
Thud, thud—
Like the drumming in my head,
Tom toms telling the wind:
My past always catches up.
But now— it’s time to abandon conformity,
Transformed by verity.
I should have a screen and keyboard,
Control-a, hit delete,
Roam the freedom of a white page
With a renewed mind.
The LORD is my Shepherd*; but I have goat’s charm
Thus, I shall not blame Him when I face dearth-alarm...
He protects me; yet in carnality, my body agonizes in pain
While He directs, my feet are stubborn in search for worldly gain…
He fires up my freezing soul toward spiritual revival
As my sins like filthy rags keep clinging to my survival…
Yes, I’m convinced of the Almighty’s presence midst attacking doubts
So I beg His rod and staff to smite my unbelief to win against fleshly bouts…
Cognizant of the Saviour’s blessings and bountifulness
“Why is my cup not running over?” cries my heart in faithlessness…
Indeed, God loves me, reaching down to offer His saving grace and mercy
Woe unto me if I neglect eternal life by not trusting Jesus, defying His clemency.
*Psalm 23:1 “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (KJV)
December 23, 2020
3rd place, "COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (45)" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/19/2021.
This is the wonder of wonders - That God blessed us with such a confession of His absolute glory! ~ Quote by Poet
Dazzling dewdrops
Slide slowly, brilliant, vibrant
Across the petals so wise
With singsong beauty
In hues of praise, sweet grace
Reflections of joy
Penetrating dreams, awake
Collections of flowers
Buds stirred to life
By the melody of birds
Tunes, softly sung
Rising to the laughing sun
Who welcomes the morning
With lemon yellow tones
Echoing sparkling rays
Across the edge of an azure sky
Deep shadows, forlorn
Whisper comfort to the moon
Shimmering in its night
Beckoning to the twinkling stars
Signaling the silent ease
Of a bright kindness
Overflowing the glow in the sky
Reminding hearts just why
There is heaven in sight
Wonders of the moment
Squirrels scampering to and fro
Laughing at the oak
Who never seems more bold
As its branches grasp
Turning with the winds
Awakening a sense of tenderness
In the reverberating gales
Thrilling the air with promises
Of the lone love story
Will this flicker of hope
Drown out the darkness
Returning courage
Jubilant strength and mercy
To the soul who knows
His touch is on the whole
Embracing the world
In an aching love that longs
To be shown, exposed
By the sensitivity of nature
It’s insight into the spirit
It’s prudence and sagacity
It’s understanding and amazing
Way of giving every heart
Pleasure that is like a smile
Soft, easy, filling the face
With rays of sunshine intimacy
F Form - Free Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
February 21, 2022
Theme Word: Nature
How can the lover of the downtrodden have a favorite?
The dichotomy of Jesus’ choosing is like an enigmatic wavelet.
To become a jewel of Christ takes more than a confession.
One must let go of the earth to reach His heaven.
One must gain faith which requires humility of highest order.
His jewels are unafraid of life’s inevitable disorder.
And to believe that gain can come from complete loss.
Willing to tear down one’s own house and bear the cross.
Jesus’ jewels will give their last fish to another undeserving.
To fully commit to the unseen and to forgo self-serving.
Often being a downtrodden you have the edge.
Due to having little to lose when on the ledge.
Jesus often searches for His best Jewels in the dark.
Like Paul, who in the dark made his profoundest mark.
Wings spread before me. Eyes to the ground.
Clouds drifting by, for I am Heaven bound.
I stood before the Heavenly Father, “Come forth,” I heard Him say. “I’ve been waiting for you child. This is your judgment day.”
His radiance was blinding, His presence calm but strong. I know He’s seen everything I’ve done. He’s known all along.
“As you stand before Me child, on your final day, is there something on your mind, something you’d like to say?”
My eyes began to fill with tears; my heart began to ache. I shivered with the very thought of
revealing my mistakes. I wasn’t nailed to a cross, and my hands did not bleed. I was not pure
of heart when asking in times of need. I did not wear a crown of thorns and my feet bare no
holes. Now I stand before my father, confessing my very soul.
“Father,” I whispered, “I’ve sinned in my life. I’ve done things I know I shouldn’t, things I know were not right. I’ve loved when I shouldn’t have. I’ve tried and given up. I’ve prayed
occasionally, when my life got tough. I’ve turned my back on strangers. I’ve turned away from my friends. Now I think of all I would change if I could try again.”
I lowered my eyes wiping the tears from my cheek. I listened with an
addled ear as the Lord began to speak.
“You stand before me confessing all your sins, and asking for another chance to do it all again? I did not expect you to be perfect and what you must understand is all you had to give was love, to become a worthy man. Don’t turn on others, for I’ve not turned on you. Seek My word when times are tough and that will see you through. Be the hand to lift up others when they are in need, and I’ll send the rains of progression to wash them if they bleed. Speak kindly to others or the crown you may wear will not be that of thorns but of a fool that does not care. Take My words to heart and let My gospel be a lesson so that your first words to Me won’t be your last confession.