Long Dark pain Poems
Long Dark pain Poems. Below are the most popular long Dark pain by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dark pain poems by poem length and keyword.
Why do I hurt so bad here where nothing seems to move,
when even silence feels too loud to bear?
The night leans close and whispers all of my names that you still know?
Where you know the places I go to in despair.
The moon hangs like a wound that will not heal,
A dark brown hole,
her just reminder carved into the sky.
The stars are needles in her velvet shroud
That stitch my sorrow deeper when I cry out.
I walk through rooms where laughter used to live,
Where echoes kneel like ghosts along the wall.
Each memory is a door I cannot open so stays shut.
Each love a hand that never comes or pulls at me at all.
My heart is tired of hoping for a more personal dawn.
That always seems to rise and set for all the other dark Gothic souls.
The world keeps turning like it does not care.
How much of me stays buried on your sandy shores.
If God still walks these corridors of dark pain.
He steps so lightly I have missed Her hands,.
Didn't you know that God was a women I knew but once.
I am so full of longing for such a release and end.
That even sleep feels like a small rehearsal of death.
So leave me here where darkness knows my length.
Where tears are only rivers made of happiness causing ache.
I have no strength left to beg the darkness to stay—
I only ask how much more I must endure if you should choose to stay.
Dusk
Above the
water hang the
loud
flies
Here
O so
gray
then
What A pale signal will appear
When Soon before its shadow fades
Where Here in this pool of opened eye
In us No Upon us As at the very edge
of where we take shape in the dark air
this object bares its image awakening
ripples of recognition that will
brush darkness up into light
even after this bird this hour both drift by atop the perfect sad instant now
already passing out of sight
toward yet-untroubled reflection
this image bears its object darkening
into memorial shades Scattered bits of
light No of water Or something across
water Breaking up No Being regathered
soon Yet by then a swan will have
gone Yes out of mind into what
vast
pale
hush
of a
place
past
sudden dark as
if a swan
sang
from hell
pain hammers
pounding in the head
casting dark shadows
steel cold deep
dressed in black
to the crossroads
walking in the dark valley
eyes lead heavy
waterfalls
aches in the soul
in a forsaken place
secluded reserved
in pain
piercing pounds
for aching guests
in no man's land
a zombie
between the living
and dead
in silent
screaming words
a desert
of barren emptiness
echoes comes alive
loathing
craving the soul
is imprisonment
taking a walk
through the mind
pulling back
the cobwebs
without escape
confused bends
in shapes
now the thunder roars
distorted visions
twisted feelings
emotions swells
cursed in the deep
the spirit
lightning strikes
power within
the brain
in dark pain
i yield unto
the light
the soul speaks
with voices
of the spirits
thundering
in the mountains
as god sent
my guardian
recovers the heart
tainted with love
stronger in fighting
silken feelings
i now stand
at the crossroads
a gladiator
of light
i survived
a battle
in hell
In this garden,
the roses have all withered,
the sparrows no longer twitter,
the day is dark and bitter.
In this garden,
a rusty gate swings in the wind,
a faded pinwheel gently spins,
a sad little girl swings within.
In this garden,
the trees are brown and rotten,
the youthful dreams forgotten,
and little tears fall often.
In this garden,
the land lies in dark repose,
the stream no longer flows,
and little eyes bear pain untold.
In this garden--
once, there was beauty here,
once, laughter flowed sweet and clear,
once, there was vigilance near.
© 05/22/2015 – Alesia Leach
Written for The Poet’s Shadow – Hosted by Greg Barden
Angels are unable to handle
these 'Sylvia Plath' sorrows,
hiding their halos -
mute to my concerns.
Love has abandoned me,
left me to decay in an open grave,
where flesh eating insects
devour my motionless corpse.
Yet, I'm a victim of my own demise,
stranded upon sand dunes,
as a martyr for sacrificial offerings
cursing my selfless 'lighthouse' conduct,
guiding lost ships through tormenting storms.
In fading light,
I'm shivering, lips quivering,
resembling a solitary ancient oak tree,
with black, bitter bark, freezing,
despite June's sunshine blazing.
My once golden roots, now sour, weaken,
crumbling under hardened, heated clay.
My 'Frida Kahlo' soul
resembles a weary traveller,
craving for manifestations of rain.
Dehydrated in darkness,
an orchestra of demons,
lurk behind misty shadows.
Epitomized incarnate images
of Satanic messengers,
stalking in echoes of self - slaughter.
Impersonating chivalrous comrades,
seducing the sanity of
my 'Oscar Wilde' mind.
These 'Van Gogh' eyes
exhausted from existence
are a shroud of obsidian mystery.
An embodiment of emotions,
feeling pain scorch in deep crimson stains,
eternally engraved like an unwanted tattoo -
yet they remind me.... I'm still alive
but I know there is beauty in death.
I shiver but still sit down to write
Sadly the words lack the strength to come
My head sorely throbs,my throat is tight
My brain feels muzzy and oh so numb
Images die in a throbbing head
My pen hangs heavy while fingers ache
Similes abort and I sneeze instead
Hacking coughs my inspiration take
All I want to do is curl up in bed
No Muse at all can lighten my mood
Warm covers,not verse , comfort instead
Words once subtle have now become crude
No break on the horizon do I see
Life feels so empty,worthless ,full of pain
Poems banished for a hot cup of tea
Brightness I need to inspire my dull brain
There's a storm in my heart
It has tattooed scars on my soul
I have seen the ugly face of a wound
It reeked bitterness
And in the cold dark pain
I felt something die inside me
Now I carry the carcass of dream
My hopes have deserted me
To crown me king of sorrow
My kingdom is brokenness
Pieces of me lie shattered and bruised
I have no song and no dance
I have become a forlorn statue
Time scorns at my disappointments
There is a part of me that no longer cries
It is buried deep inside gloom
I have become stone and desert
And when the arid winds blow
I cringe like a wounded animal
And howl in pain
Frozen....
Deep in thought,
cringing at the idea of fighting....
laying motionless....
on the ground,
placing the blanket of impropriety over you.
With no words to say,
and no feelings to be felt....
you lay there, with a lost look in your eyes....
Your every word makes no sense to anyone,
but in your mind,
you, yourself, make no sense to anyone.
Your bones scrape against each other,
blood running warm one second,
and cold the next....
your thoughts remain frozen.
You cry tears....
drown yourself in them,
only to turn around and ask....
"what am I crying for?"
You freeze when spoken to,
you shut down....
you tune out the world,
you ignore the positive,
and consume the negative,
like some strong alcoholic drink at a bar....
you think you'll go far,
but you know this life is hard....
this walk....
is hard....
so you remain frozen.
Shut the door on those around you,
writing people off....
expecting them to still be there,
when you wise up and realize,
I am not what I think I am....
I am not a hero,
I am not a warrior,
I am nothing more....
than a waste of space....
a waste of time....
a waste of energy.
You could turn it all around,
get your feet back on the ground,
but you refuse to make a sound....
you're frozen....
stiff in silence....
looking around you,
wondering why death itself hasn't found you.
Wondering why promises are so hard....
for you to keep....
laying there late at night....
wondering why you can't sleep....
Laying there motionless....
asking yourself....
"Will it ever get better for me...."
"Or am I doomed to spend the rest of my life this way?"
Frozen.
The physical effects of trauma are like a thief that arrives in the quiet.
Stealing all that you hold dear and take for granted.
An eye that won’t stop twitching, vision that blurs at the edges, food that you can’t swallow.
Headaches bloom relentlessly, dull and throbbing, until they feel like a permanent fixture.
Hair thins. Joints ache. Muscles protest without cause.
The stomach turns unpredictable, and pain appears in places untouched, ghostlike and untraceable.
Each symptom, on its own, could be explained.
Stress, fatigue, something minor, something temporary.
There is hope in that. It can be solved; a cure is available. An end is within reach.
But together they are a living reminder of a darkness others fail to see.
So, the one enduring it questions themselves instead.
Because it’s easier to believe the problem is personal failure and not the body’s response to something catastrophic and overwhelming.
Even the simplest parts of living begin to feel like impossible negotiations with a system that refuses to cooperate.
There is a particular cruelty in that loss.
In feeling your own body turn unfamiliar and untrustworthy.
It strips away any sense of ease, any illusion of dignity.
And layered on top of that is the ever present, nagging and persistent shame.
The feeling of being somehow wrong, somehow unclean, as if the suffering itself is a flaw.
To live inside that reality is not just exhausting; it is isolating in a way that words can’t capture.
Or worse, with words that won’t be believed.
The chapel swallowed my name whole,
left it hanging in the rafters
with the smoke
and the blackened wings
of moths who craved the candlelight with a burning passion.
I had learned young
how to pray, kneel and bow
to the gods my aunts worshipped,
wondering always how their knees
never bled like mine.
I learned quickly
how to hold my voice
in the back of my throat,
how to make my silence sound beautiful.
There is a fox-heart pacing beneath my ribs,
red-furred and rabid with psalms.
There are forests growing in my throat,
roots splitting the hymns apart
stone by stone.
Even the trees outside the chapel
bent away from the door that night.
Somewhere deep in the valley,
a fox cried out like a warning bell.
The floorboards groaned beneath him,
old wood speaking the language of storms,
and the candle flame trembled
every time he said my name.
Dusk caught blue in the windows,
thin as bruises beneath the broken glass and skin.
Even the saints along the walls
turned their eyes away.
when he touched me,
The crows went quiet.
Even the river held its breath.
And I—
good, sainted thing that I was—
lay there like a field after harvest,
stripped down to dirt
and bone
praying for some righteous flood
to carry me elsewhere.
It never came.
So I made divinity out of and into myself.
I stitched my halo from briars,
pressed foxglove to my tongue,
bathed in the creek
where the dead deer sleep,
their pearl-white ribs
gleaming like cathedral windows
beneath the water.
I buried every girl I used to be
beneath an oak tree split by lightning.
She deserved a proper funeral.
She deserved mourning bells,
not his hands clutching her softness
like a thief testing doors at dusk.
Now when I sing,
the wolves come closer.
Now when I pray,
it sounds like thunder
dragging itself across the hills.
And if he saw me tonight—
mud-crowned and feral,
with heaven burning blue
beneath my skin—
he would call me wicked.
And he would be right.
Because I have learned
there is no fury more sacred
than that of a woman
who finally believes
her rage is the only holy thing in this wretched world