Long Contradicts Poems
Long Contradicts Poems. Below are the most popular long Contradicts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contradicts poems by poem length and keyword.
Berlin's a place that contradicts -
It's vibrant, but it's haunting,
The paradigm of hipness, with
A history most daunting.
The damage done in World War II
Reduced it to a rubble
And then the famous wall went up,
Which led to years of trouble.
You can't forget (and never should)
The Nazi reign of terror.
Memorials abound atoning
For that awful era.
Yet everything has been restored.
You won't see ancient buildings,
But modern takes of what was lost,
Replete with domes and gildings.
This is a city worth a trip,
With coolness overriding,
Defiant that to all the world
Its past will not be hiding.
They start thick—
not the polite kind you stir into tea
not the mild drizzle on breakfast toast
but the kind that runs hot
slow
dangerous
coating your tongue before you grasp
the price of its pleasure.
They start golden—
dripping off the comb
sun pressed into their marrow
too rich, too syrupy—
gumming up the gears of your schemes
too luminous for hands that flinch from light
too wild for walls meant to contain them.
You want squeeze-bottle love.
Clean.
No bees.
No stingers.
No buzz.
But they ferment in kitchens
where no one thanks them—
same way their grandmothers did
spooning fire into each serving
stinging their own tongues
just to stay sharp—
drizzling down your better judgment staining
Sunday shirts
unraveling wedding vows
spilling past boundaries
no one asked them to obey.
They get called—
too much.
too loud.
too open.
too shut—
like they were born to fit into your grip
instead of slipping right through it.
You try to jar them.
Slap on barcodes:
Best before.
Handle with care.
Discount if damaged
for quick sale.
But wild honey won’t kneel—
it contradicts logic
defies preservation
reason
perfumes the air
wrecks your thirst for tradition.
You mistook raw for reckless
Reckless for ruin
Ruin for something to fear.
You laughed when they wept—
like grief was a spectacle
like tenderness was weak
like softness
was a defect to be filtered out.
But by the time you realize
she’s the rarest thing
you ever tasted—
she’s already sweetening
the hands that never swatted her
And now,
we sit here—
jars without lids,
spoons still sticky—
trying to remember
what it meant to taste something
that never begged to be caged.
Maybe—
the glass wasn’t meant to hold her.
Maybe—
it was meant to shatter—
to let something wild
and feral
flood in
and leave you
pleading
for ruin.
—it’s a reckoning,
unapologetic,
untamed,
final.
A bad person smiles with polished teeth,
their words smooth stones skipping over dark water.
They lie without trembling,
because the lie has long ago become their skin.
The good man stumbles in falsehood,
his eyes turning toward the floor
as though truth were a wounded bird
crying beneath the boards.
For evil rehearses itself.
It studies mirrors,
learns the shape of kindness,
the proper nod, the measured grief.
But the decent soul—
he is awkward in deception.
His conscience leaves fingerprints
upon every sentence.
Beware the man
who never contradicts himself,
whose stories arrive too clean,
too sharpened, too ready.
The shadow often comes
dressed in confidence.
And goodness—
goodness is usually uncertain,
standing in the doorway
with muddy shoes and honest hands.
Love is kind.
Love is patient.
Love gives.
Love understands.
But what if
love is only kind
until it teaches you to kneel
for crumbs and call it a feast?
What if love isn’t perfect
not because we weren’t
but because fate crossed our paths
when we were meant to grow apart?
They say love is giving
but what if I gave too much
until I forgot the sound
of my own heartbeat?
What if love contradicts
everything we swear we believe
just to soothe a moment’s ache?
What if love is a myth
a beautiful lie we chase
to avoid learning
how to love ourselves first?
And what if
after all the breaking and bending
I still call that love
because it hurt just like they promised?
"Inspired by The Sick Child by Edward Munch 1907 Oils on Canvas." The Poet
Motif etched first then done in hues of green,
Light embracing her red hair to set the scene.
A sign of resignation on her pretty, pale face,
Once she carried herself with style and grace.
Her dear mother weeps in deep misery,
Besotted with grief, there’s no cure for her TB.
Kneeling she is portrayed with a touch of her hand,
Reaching out to her adored one, trying to understand.
Her daughter pale and weak, her hair lost its sheen.
Her life ending too soon, she is only fifteen.
No longer was the young girl so distraught.
Despite all the effort and how hard she had fought.
Paint was applied with rapid brush strokes.
Using vivid color as we see the passion it evokes.
Despite this painful true memory the artist depicts,
Not a traumatic scene, but one that contradicts.
His dear sister looks calm and rather sedate.
Sophie, knowing her fate, for death she will wait.
Lifetimes have past from those days of long ago
Inching to be what we were, now understandably slow
For such memories, such memories, engulfed in our sin
To imagine their thoughts, to begin their begin
Idiots, imbeciles, superlatives they were not
Never knowing the destruction they would cause
Gallantly pushing the button, our worlds now in pause
The viewing I now view, contradicts who we are
How can alleged intelligence be whom we breathe
Encircled we are, formed we wreathe
For it's against the against, what matters so
Out there are many, each other through their eyes
Going against each others grain, so we despise
.
Nine in ten admits that holding
on to the grudge is wrong,
oh, there have been times
I did the same, and with head
in hands, I hid in shame crying,
telling myself how cruel I was,
repeating it with awful shame...
that a loveless soul is hard to tame,
" Everybody hates to forgive...
and in revenge, I didn't believe
how can we shut people out of our world
living a selfish life terribly cold? "
I like to forget, leave all tears behind
and wait for a cheerful morning
that's bright and full of sound;
hear me praying to the Lord,
He'll listen and restore every joy
that I may feel until I see His glory!
How can we shut people off our world,
believing that turning them away is something
we must do to give satisfaction to hateful anger...
when we should be showing human love
that's so noble to do, nothing else;
how can we shut people out of our world,
and go on living as if nothing has changed!
In the depth of our soul, we know it's too unfair
and it contradicts belief, trust, and harmony!
Doesn't God look upon us with displeasure
when we hurt others with painful words,
not understanding that they are hard blows?
Don't they stare at us and feel so unloved
and betrayed by friends who thought we were
beautiful diamonds with a shine so real?
How can we shut people out of our world
if they were things to store away when not needed?
How we shut people off our world,
keeping silent and showing hearts of steel?
In New York City, traffic lights
By walkers are ignored,
For getting someplace faster
Is the ultimate reward.
Except for little children –
Thus, the right way must be taught
And therefore, with confusion,
Situations might be fraught.
Today a dad was on the corner
With his kids in tow.
They crossed against the light because
The street looked good to go.
“But Dad,” the kids protested,
“Don’t you see the light is red?”
“When I’m with you, then it’s okay,”
Is what the father said.
“But never do this by yourself!”
Which surely contradicts
His children’s knowledge, sending them
A message clearly mixed.
An urban kid learns quickly
There are two sides to a coin
And often your companion
Lets you know which side to join.
Ah Such A Great Night...
To Fish In The Cyber Sea
Always does this generic guy abhor
inflicting pain and suffering,
hence I haint n'er fished before,
and even metaphorically
referencing piscine creatures
(strictly as prosaic analogy),
aye reel lee deplore
causing deliberate suffering vehemently
contradicts my credo,
dogma, ethos, et cetera
within and/or without, the
webbed, wide world
this *****sapien doth explore
and as an aspiring scrivener
(fraught with floor rid sweaty palms
even in the dead of winter
offer poems galore
already written alluding to the
unpleasant physiological hoar
rubble sensation of dripping
(nee sopping) wet hands,
a curse that follows me indoor
or out, thus no surprise,
an aversion to mingle,
no matter socialization even jure
re: duty with defendant
whereat, me complicit sharing
Matthew Scott Harris namesake
accused of outrageously unreasonable
po' wet tick rhyming scheme
(but nonguilty exemption status
decreed since accused ache'n to yours truly
receives social security disability)
would be a more welcome palliative
versus less wick
Kurd substitute then Cap' kanger
rue, and ameliorate self imposed
sole lit aery isolation and
on the flip (Wilson) side keeping
streets safe, cuz temptation
dust newt not lure
me into a life of crime) more
or less chuckling,
that profuse perspiration,
would be mon nor
matt heave, while
accomplices fall down
laughing in tears,
and thence the poor
seer suckers nabbed
(cautionary fruitless
canter berry tale), and
(whew) not sullying
only whetting my
steely slippery rapport.
there may be times when you think that everything's changed...
but you look around, and you still don't see anything for what it is...
so you willingly forfeit the hope of what could be, in exchange for the theory that should be.
so naturally, you incline towards your conviction that things simply must be this way...
and anything else that contradicts what has been true since you've been alive, was conceived by the mind of an unborn fetus.
you don't just want to avoid pain, you want to hurt it back.
you don't just want perfection, you want to make it look easy.
you don't just want to live in spite of everything, you want to work against the world's form and shape, because of the prehistoric theory that it symbolizes true strength.
and what will you do when you have all those things?
you'll always feel like a soldier in a garden.
will you trample over every flower, squirrel, and anthill...
simply because you deem it to be inferior, and that no flower, squirrel, or ant can say otherwise?
life will go on.
so why choose the death of everything,
over the life and oneness of it all?