Long Contusions Poems
Long Contusions Poems. Below are the most popular long Contusions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contusions poems by poem length and keyword.
Our Lord suffered so much many people don't know this
They're thinking out of touch and so much do they miss
Oh how our Lord was beaten, punched, spit upon the face
But sin Jesus was defeating and how He showed Grace
They tore off His clothes and kicking him to the ground
Torture the Roman guard knows thus Jesus was bound
One lash two lash three lash four, mocking His Name
Soon our Lord's Back tore the Roman guard's finest game
Nor would our Lord sleep as they tormented Him all night
Just Ponder really deep Jesus being such a bloody sight
But this was just the beginning His Blood would flow more
Punishment for all the world sinning by The Lamb so pure
Oh how they beat our Lord then made Him carry our cross
Even pierced by a sword my emotions so violently tossed
Because of why He did it, see, He did it, for me, and you
Think of every tiny little bit and maybe you will see too
The Romans’ scourging whip “had iron balls tied a few inches from the end of each leather thong on the whip. Sometimes, sharp sheep bones would be tied near the ends.” The metal weights served to cause serious bruising, or contusions, and the leather of the thongs cut into the skin. The sheep bones were also made to deepen the lacerations into the skin. After only a few lashes, the depths of the cuts would reach into muscle tissue.
not like a Christian, but like a victim.
I prayed like a woman afraid,
afraid I was the sacrifice to his vice.
I would lie awake then. I lie awake now
as my heartbeat hammers
my breastbone like a blacksmith,
I remember… I remember
in a pale cringe, I sniffled. My blood polka-dotted
a white floor that smeared an inkblot of me.
A split lip, half-wit tamed by the maim of his fist.
His madman’s magma buried me,
a lingual lava flow that hardened as it cooled.
My sense of self turned to obsidian. I fractured.
Tears slashed like shards. I bled self-esteem.
He preyed on me
as I prayed to him like he was a god.
Please forgive me! It’s all my fault! On my knees
I was dead to myself.
He split my skin. Stripped me to my bones.
His vulture needs I remember.
My emotional remains he savored,
flavored with backhands and vodka bottle bottoms.
I seethed in sour juices of moonshine abuses.
I counted moons and contusions. I counted
each stitch needled through my skin.
My heart quilted with clichés;
I love you. I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
I seized my breath so's not to moan or implode.
As I exhale I remember
I fantasized of blasting him to the belly of Hell
when I’d usher vengeance inside our back door.
Reaper’s reckoning when this battered forget-me-not
shattered his bones with buck-shot scatter. Damn!
I’d have paid the devil for a jail cell to be free.
A candlelight-night bruised by cruiser lights:
I remember I prayed like a victim to 911.
Oh God! Please God! Help me! He's gonna kill me!
I pressed bleeding heart flowers between diary pages,
diary pages without words cried to be heard.
Concussion dreams panic my pulse, dilate my eyes!
Oh, dreamless sleep, grant me deceased peace.
Until night hags of nightmares die
I will remember...
Black and blue boo boo bruises courtesy hurled Bobo box
No matter I sustained multiple contusions about the face and neck and minor head concussion after the missus tossed an unopened box of five apple pie stuff'd oat bites in my direction (what got whisked - as clocked by yours truly at lightspeed), nevertheless (whew), no permanent damage prevailed regarding the cherished goods.
While recuperating in the hospital bed,
I decided to craft incident report,
(yet refuse to implicate the missus)
quickly letting fingers
skitter across keyboard
couched with divine intervention,
cuz yours truly nearly got declared dead,
thus the following words quickly typed
before creative juices fled
despite skeptical readers,
who might immediately deduce
that I rightly ought to be
declared out of my talking head
thankful caring empowered
stalwart connections qua invaluable friends
gifted with emergency lifeline when pitted
with suicidal ideations, predilections,
utilizations fostering existential crisis,
hence resilience taught to thwart
self harmful and hurtful modus operandi
thru the dogma, ethos,
and faith of worthiness
and in remembrance of JED,
(whose founders lost
above mentioned son to suicide),
thus inadvertently halting epidemic,
whereby teens and young adults
offered mental health resources
by building resiliency and life skills,
promoting social connectedness,
and encouraging help-seeking
and help-giving behaviors
through nationally recognized programs,
digital channels, and partnerships,
as well as through the media
spreading the word
to cope against desire to annihilate self
(think nihilistic existentialism)
receiving immediate access
to forge an excellent outlook
reliable material broadcast
across social media platforms
exemplifying and identifying linkedin
ingenious and innovative modus operandi
such as promulgating hotline
flown like the goodyear blimp
videre licet zeppelin made of lead
clearly displaying credo
(which unfortunately never came to my aid -
just another statistic courtesy anorexia nervosa)
summed up as Ned:
A character education program that uses a cartoon character named NED to promote kindness and excellence in schools. NED is an acronym for "Never give up, Encourage others, and Do your best".
Days are flying by so fast
But there is something in my past
Regretting I will never know
How our love was meant to grow
Blooming into something great
I kick myself--- It's much too late
To repair the brokenness
From the lack of openness
That was supplied on the way
Of turning my back everyday
On problems you tried to repair
But I did not want to hear
Compromise with good solutions
Leaving you with bad contusions
Of my selfishness and greed
I left in your hour of need
Calling my name--- begging me
To step back and really see
There is something here worth saving
But my soul was only craving
A world of freedom far from here
Just leaving you standing there
With a sad and painful look
Now I wish that I could book
A time machine and travel back
To a place and time to smack
Some sense in my foolish head
So I don't live with this dread
Taking you inside my arms
Fixing the things I did wrong
delusions, illusions,
these random contusions,
idolic notions of
noiseless commotions,
keeps me in motion,
whirling with the gravity
I'm on my knees,
praying what you're saying
I still believe
and if its true
what i really need,
is to be sent away
from family
and friends,
I will contend
but that doesn't mean
it's not right for me,
can't you see
I'm not in control of this body
anymore
restless and sore,
an endless downpour
of emotions, evoke erosions
my sanity, slowly bleeds
leaving me a shell of me
all the while I beg and plead
leave me be, leave me be
I'm fine I'm fine,
you're acting crazy,
not me, can't you see,
I see it all so plainly,
time for me to be set free
from this false reality
with this slice I'll set it right,
clean and quick,
pick it up,
hazy drift,
I'm giving up,
Conflagrations of Contemplation
Elemental exaltations for refined explanations
Permeatations of conflagrations that seek to define progressive nations
Illuminations of consecrations that have me seeking contemplation
Acclimatisation toward configurations that have been building a new space station
Fusions of finite resources to be plundering
Contusions of insight and sources to be pondering
Infusions of delight without remorse to be wondering
Confusions of contrite concourse to be sundering
I can see the echoes of loss and grief inside your eyes
I’d set you free if it weren’t so painful to watch you cry
But then who would relieve me from the tears accumulating in my eyes
As I watch you smile above it all and attune in your disguise
Postulations on productive thought and ethical considerations
Aberrations of reductive sport that leaves you in commiserations
Attestations that they can be bought in these times of sellout consternations
Distillations that leave me over wrought with latent contemplations
Fundamental Answers cannot be found through statements designed to obfuscate
Experimental philosophical dancers design the concepts to debate
Compartmental insinuations that are defined to constantly conflate
Transcendental notions that are refined to expansively illuminate
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
“FAKE” Festering Marital Spite Only Backfired...
More than a bajillion painful eons
after pledging troth
with thee missus,
whom I definitely blindly wed
comprised great ta ra ra boom
de ay ye blood red
boomerang/ domino pizza pie
effect pronouncing lead
din saucy impact inducing
mushrooming reverberations,
she continuously smacks me with dread
naught (Hawaiian punch style)
upside the head
jarring delicate anatomical
soft as freshly baked bread
gray matter, qua delicate
psyche got skull fully outspread
knocking down intelligent quotient
less than porcine Nellie, one smart
pig in poke farmstead,
where unseen hemorrhaging bled
scarring, seething, and suffering
practically indelible contusions
finds me whirling back from Sheepshead
Bay to stone age of Fred
Flintstone, where shmoo zing schwilly
found yours comfortably numb,
and yet kept on truckin as if grateful dead,
asper decades worth oven
po' whetted unleavened bread.
This insufferable afflicted
brow beaten doughless bro
tantamount, viz time
and again forced to eat crow
yes (ma pet) even as prank no
joking even derided by (thanks to Yo
yo ma spouse) innocent looking Elmo
nsync with mouths of scared
bullies vitriol, which did flow
exploding like embers
kindled within me plenti glow
wing with blood lust vengeance
antithesis trademarked ho ho ho
wing of Santa Claus, intending
to crush indomitable of this Joe,
whose spit fired spirit, also
suffered strafed bruised flesh
indistinguishable from indigo
girls or goo goo dolls know
wing no better than dodo
bird than besiege this hobo!
I hope that still, within my free heart, Lives,
A secret fire that cannot be defiled.
I’m just a man, who sins, trips, oft forgives...
Filed in a drawer, my Soul’s a little child...
Who knows that I will never Perfect be.
Yet, there’s a sublimation of all that,
In exercising all the wit I see,
But after, I lie, panting, on the mat...
This whole confusion’s all illusion, really!
Contusions upon cuts can’t win the fight!
And polishing a clod is worse than silly,
So… WHY? Because, by GOD, we have the right!
To seek within, a Sacred, Humble Spark,
That ever, and anon, puts out the Dark.
My autopsy room is a confessional,
where killers in absentia divulge
their sins through bodies
rigid and frigid, mutilated and mute.
Graffiti of abrasions, contusions and lacerations
reenact without deceit or reservations
a catalogue of perversions and violations.
Rage, hatred, greed, jealousy, sickness
explode and leave behind vandalized anatomies,
a *********** of naked emotions
in the topography of vacated husks.
Silently, they talk.
With my eyes, I listen.
They confide in me about themselves too,
these chatty cadavers,
about their public faces and private hell.
Tattoos speak of loves and obsessions,
silicone breasts betray insecurities,
medications reveal internal insurgencies,
needle marks give away muffled screams,
cirrhosis lets on alcoholic dreams.
A hundred foibles preserved by the
candor of rigor mortis,
each corpse an abridged,
unfinished biography.
By the end of their final confessions, the departed
have parted with their burdens of secrets.
In death much more than in life,
there is honesty.
Still, I take comfort in the lies of the living.
Unconscious bias, an interesting subject indeed.
While I would never be biased, allow me to proceed.
Bias is experienced by dummies, crazies, and kooks.
Not something that would apply to someone with my good looks.
When you give me new information, I just throw it out.
I know what I need to know. The rest I can do without.
But I'm open-minded, to your idea I'll attach
merit, if, to what I already believe, it's a match.
I do not like to bother myself with data and stuff.
I already know most everything. Isn't that enough?
Did I hear someone rudely interrupting? Was that you?
I'll kindly ignore it and continue to tell you what's true.
It's so wonderful that all of us in this great nation,
like me, have achieved such enlightened civilization.
No sir, not one of us suffers from delusions.
Unconscious bias never results in illusions.
Yet, why is it that I reach the dreadful conclusions
that political debates will lead to contusions,
and there will be a rise in demand for transfusions?
No wonder I live in seclusion.