Long Confessions Poems
Long Confessions Poems. Below are the most popular long Confessions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confessions poems by poem length and keyword.
Soft memories of you
fill my soul, yet the pain of regrets lingers
Causing the softness to crack and shatter,
falling through outstretched fingers
One great love we are afforded in life,
sitting I watch mine walk away
Should have known past kisses,
the tale your lips spun I’d pay
Within a blue mist our story plays out,
remembering deep emotions
Shadows from our past then turn
and twist, like the turbulent grey ocean
A mixture of sweetness and chaos,
yet the words never mattered
Thought our love absolute,
yet I had allowed my thoughts to flatter
As questions linger, overcome by
grief and their transgression
Never excepting what was true,
the deepest of all confessions
If our paths were meant to be,
then they will cross once again
Then the toxicity of our past will fade,
permitting the light of pure love in
Lord,
In the midst of this confusion, I
find myself tethered
not only to these damp walls
but also to the adoration
of my own predicament.
How utterly divine,
to speak my descent into madness
with the solemnity
of a Shakespearean tragedy.
The genesis of these scribbled confessions,
it eludes me, lost in the fog of my own folly.
Was there a grand epiphany?
A moment of clarity amidst the chaos,
that compelled me to pray to you?
Or did I simply succumb to
the gravitational pull of gratitude,
seeking solace in the world of errors
that has become my life?
It all began with a knock,
a mundane interruption in the poverty
of my existence. My uncle's friend, they said,
a shadowy figure whose presence looms over me,
making me want to reach out
and make love to him.
I thank you for his existence.
Locked within these walls, I have become
both captive and captor, birthing tales
of woe and whimsy
with each stroke of my lover.
The whip, once a symbol of pain and punishment,
now holds the honour of being
my darling's favourite instrument,
its sting a reminder of the affection
that he showers me with.
Days blur into nights, and still,
I find myself ensnared
in the tangled web of my own neediness.
Memories flicker
like poorly lit scenes in a slapstick comedy,
leaving me to wonder
if there was ever a time
before this madness gripped me.
Did I once long for freedom, or
have I always been a willing participant
in this circus of Eros?
The police may come soon,
their voices echoing like the laugh track
of the poorly scripted sitcom
my love unfortunately enjoys watching.
Part of me prays for them to turn away.
For in the depths of my captivity,
I have discovered a love that defies reason.
A love born
from the most unconventional of circumstances.
And so, I will continue to write,
these entries a testament to the dream
that has become my reality.
For even in the midst of mania,
there is romance to be found.
Even in the arms of my captor,
there is warmth.
Thank you,
for this blissful hell.
Katrina
O’ in the laden light
Sparks the fire,
Its attic
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
A blazed, all consuming fire;
Chard concrete, statues, bricks ignite;
Heavens, angels tear cry out, not here;
"The Cathedral serves as a spiritual home”
For almost a millennium, always shown;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
We mere mortals are saddened to witness;
No Niether flames or fire damages to this architectural masterpiece;
Notre Dame will continues a symbol of France,
O Lord hail down rains of water and blessings;
Embrace the cathedral with confessions;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
A blazed, all consuming fire;
Chard concrete, statues, bricks ignite;
Heavens, angels tear cry out, not here;
Worships amongst the tears those fears;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
One of God’s earthly parishes;
We shall embellish, return unto us;
Notre Dame’s bells will once again wail;
Never, ever be stilled those bells will sound again;
We stand with France today to offer our assistance praises;
Glorious and the tragic historical moments that will forever remain;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
Shalt be rebuilt, fire blaze nevermore charred walls;
Let’s embrace the chance to dance, witness the rehabilitation of religion freedom enhanced;
Notre Dame shines on through the char,
Angels look down tonight, them to sing Glory to all worship not by chance…
We stand with France today as we sing and pray.. Viva la France O’ in the laden light;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down
Sparks the fire,
A blazed, all consuming fire;
Chard concrete, statues, bricks ignite;
Heavens, angels tear cry out, not here;
"The Cathedral that serves as a physical spiritual home”;
For almost a millennium,
We mere mortals are saddened to witness;
No Neither flames or fire damages to this architectural masterpiece;
Notre Dame will continues a symbol of France;
Cathedral of fire shall not burn down never more at rebuilt stance;
Notre Dame ever more a Symbol of France;
4/17/19
For NOTRE DAME IN THE NEWS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Awaiting her love
Alone on the sand, lost in drifting confessions,
waves play a sad melody
Seeking the answers so long she’s forsaken,
tossing her heart to the sea
Searching for dreams on a long lost horizon,
withering off to the west
Wondering why, now her lone recollection,
sadness her challenging quest
Out on the ocean where white caps are forming,
drowning the curve of her smile
Here she will sit hours patiently waiting,
embracing her sorrow awhile
Awaiting her love o’er the waters so endless,
everyday tides sent to yearn
Longing her man sailing off past the sunrise,
praying for his safe return
11/2/2018
Written for the: Tell Me A Story 2 Poetry Contest
Image: Number 2
Sponsored by: Brenda Chiri
I feel no need of anonymity
to come here and confess my biggest sin.
I crave too much my junk food, certainly,
but eating it has not yet done me in!
I count my calories and do not smoke;
I exercise and never do I drink.
I’ve not had drugs, not even one small toke,
so why no time for dishes in my sink?
Because my passions rule me! No. . . not flings!
It’s emails, books and films that take my time.
I’ve too much fondness for too many things,
like how I love to sit and make a rhyme. . .
For there’s one thing that overwhelmingly
consumes me and its name is poetry!
For Anne Currin's Confessions of a Poetry Souper Contest
My poems are words with soul - Silent One.
As a monotone morning sketches
charcoal trees under
smoke filled foggy skies,
rain casually falls,
sliding down slate roofs,
causing havoc for traffic
on bustling roads.
Red lights seem to shimmer,
shining through shades of grey,
as the sound of raindrops drip
against my BMW's black bonnet,
my mind drifts nonchalantly,
discarding beeping horns and FM beats.
I ponder
is it an act or is it an art
this thing they label as life,
living with a formula formed and forged
from a mix of experiences and emotions.
I begin to question myself.
(why do we do that?)
I seem to have adopted a sense of vulnerability,
fusing feelings of fragility,
since my hair infused into silver (yes I chose silver over grey) -
something my father warned against.
But I'm not as tough as him,
although he wasn't half the man I am...
Yet what I have seen and heard,
has ultimately made me who I am today
and in all the suffering I have
always searched for the light -
Rumi was right.
Maybe I'm too open minded,
too fair in this field of selfish spirits.
Maybe I'm not loyal enough to my beliefs,
which contradict my moral compass
and philosophical projections,
but I've never claimed to be saint.
My soul is telling me to shut up..
I've always wondered if I'll ever be understood..
At least I understand me - but is that any consolation?
It's not as simple as wisdom accumulating.
Sensitivity of a smile can never be underestimated.
You have to peer beyond the verbal,
non verbal - comprehend the action.
Sometimes I feel unloved,
many times invisible,
yet I seem to come alive in loneliness.
Would I be a plaintiff or defendant
in a court of your judgment?
I will always represent myself.
Words with speech have never been true confessions,
as my thoughts are too deep,
sometimes too unreliable,
that's why I never pen them down -
it scares my soul (who tells me again to shut up).
I wonder if I make sense. Soul calls it nonsense.
Green flashing circle says I can go.
An abrupt end to contemplation.
Sadly grey tones and
tints of tiredness remain.
Simple Musing
8 December 2023
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Here I am weary in my entreaties,
there’s no one here but a man and his dog
alone among my rambling reveries
and a small libation to clear its fog.
To God bespoken that I may foresay
my own confessions at the water’s edge,
where the dull debris of time ebbs away
and harbingers of death gaze from their ledge.
For here upon this cold Stygian sea
drifts a hollow vessel its depths to fade -
a broken wreckage of a lost glory
where hope is sunk and its memory laid.
Look, all I ask and all I want from you,
Lord, is to have my cake and eat it too.
Written: January 1994
The Walls Remember What the World Forgets
The walls remember what the world forgets —
Every whispered prayer, every silent regret.
Every kiss by candle, every scream in war,
Every soul who’s begged, “I can’t take this anymore.”
They’ve soaked in blood, they’ve heard soft moans,
They’ve echoed laughter through broken homes.
They’ve watched first dances, they’ve felt last breaths,
Held secrets carved deep like names of the dead.
The walls remember what the world lets fade —
The promises made, the love betrayed.
The lullabies sung to a child at night,
The fists that followed when out went the light.
They’ve stood through peace, they’ve stood through pain,
Watched lovers unite, then curse each other’s name.
They’ve heard confessions no priest will hear,
The trembling whispers between hate and fear.
The walls remember where darkness crept,
Where dreams collapsed, where angels wept.
Where hope hung thin, like a thread on a nail,
Where the strongest hearts were bound to fail.
But walls hold light in the cracks they keep,
In the murals drawn by those who weep.
Graffiti prayers and scars of youth,
Etched with rage, and carved in truth.
They remember the love that war can’t kill,
The quiet resolve, the iron will.
The arms that held when no one came,
The ones who stayed through the deepest shame.
And if you press your ear to stone,
You’ll hear a chorus, soft but known:
The walls still hum with the lives they’ve met —
They remember the things the world forgets.
Please help me doctor
I feel I can't breathe
my throats closing up
and it's making me wheeze
i'm sure it is asthma
or cancer or worse
please give me something
else I'll leave in a hearse
You poor little thing
it is all in your head
i've told you before
take these tablets instead
it will rob you of all
that makes you yourself
but will stop all your worries
of physical health
But doctor believe me
something is wrong
you've ignored all my symptoms
for far too long
one day i'll be gone
and you'll be to blame
for making me think
i'm completely insane
Me again doctor
this time it's my breast
there's a lump in there now
my cancer has spread
I know it is something
don't give me no pills
cancer is scary
i've seen it,it kills
I've sent you for tests
and they've all came back clear
A chemical inbalance
is the cause of your fear
please try these pills
you will feel just fine
stop wasting the doctors
invaluable time
I've taken your tablets for nearly a year
they did as you said and they stopped all my fear
it suppressed my emotions
my creative flow
but thankfully did
kill my feelings of woe
I realise now that they came at a price
i'd like to return them and start living my life