Long Diary Poems
Long Diary Poems. Below are the most popular long Diary by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Diary poems by poem length and keyword.
I write to speak,
Of feelings folded neat,
Of dreams untold,
And words left incomplete.
A letter — meant to travel far,
Needs an address, a name, a mark;
But mine — they linger, sealed within,
No stamp, no post, no destined kin.
To whom shall I write
When no one waits?
When the heart itself
Locks its gates?
Some are written out of fear,
Some in silence, held so near;
Some for love I’ll never claim,
Some for guilt without a name.
To the unknown, the lost, the dear,
To shadows I hold close and clear,
I write — not to be read or known,
But to whisper truth to my own.
These letters rest where secrets blend,
Pages of thoughts that never end.
They are my diary, my unseen friend —
The letters I’ll never send.
My ideas are gold
Not a thought I would waste
As the issues unfold
My mind is still holding grace
And to say that quite guy couldn't say much
I'll still be silent to you, until the paper and the pen touch
The outlet that I use, poetrysoup is the diary
I notice a few others who disgracefully try to copy me
Should I take it as love, not important to be opponents?
While crafting my thoughts together, giving my readers moments so they can---
Make It last, make it last forever
I thought we should have had it, but you couldn't show me better
And I make poems about it over again
We've could have done it all, you just drop me as a friend
Then it ends, a new day and a poem to begin
Yeah, we know a few things and I would be ashamed
Like if it were mine to claim and It doesn't have my last name, buddy.
You know I'm writing with a cause
So if you're worried, here's a note to all your flaws:
If she says she'll call you back do not expect it
And if she'd rather stay with me, well... Just accept it.
I am only an artist
I always have been, so I will be
Trying to communicate in ways
With words, images, pictures
Open up my heart to heal
The brokenness from days gone by
I will give what I can, I always have
But must face the pattern of losses
Mistakes or time so easily swept away
Fill the emptiness that may emerge
This is a place for my inner being
To live in safety simply through a pen
Knowing, I can share what I choose
Or keep it in a private treasure chest
I don’t believe life is meant to be easy
The harder we try, the harder it gets
I process things my diary will not forget
In a sweet haven where my heart rests
Heidi Sands
11/2/17
Placed 4th for My Diary Contest.
mene tekel peres - calligraphic prescience.
global village voice - a dialect of babel
the poetry slam - pen viva voce
inherent bloodline - curdle into nepotism
Atlanta's Oliver Hardy
so pretentious and somewhat lardy,
had a sidekick,bungling,but thin
both silently,still bring a grin
The talented Christina Rossetti
wrote carols and much poetry.
Married love elluded her,I'm afraid,
the poor lass dying as a spinster maid
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
a Victorian pre - raphelite ,you see,
with his true love,buried his poetry
but later ....could not let them be.
Playwright Wiliam Shakespeare
held rhyme & cadence ,so dear.
Plays in verse were his thing
making our English lingo sing.
There once was a composer named Cage
whose compositions caused 'listener' rage.
His music,was too radically new,
it gave the orchestra so little to do
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
wrote poetry everso gently.
His greatest claim to fame
immortalised his mother's maiden name
For the lovely Adelaide Crapsey
a long life was not to be.
In syllable,two,four,six &eight
she created the cinquain anew!
Scottish poet Wiliam Soutar
is now well known wide and far,
for a his diary of a dying man-
Do read his whigmaleeries, if you can
How does it feel to be broken hearted,
To be hurt because you loved?
Does it hurt as much as a broken bone,
Or worse?
The pain stays, but for a short while.
Except in cases rare, it goes an extra mile.
How does it feel to be a man who has been
To a concert with a woman in a red dress?
Does it feel short lived
Like a drunkard's oblivion?
The feeling lasts, but for a short time;
A second or two worth more than a dime.
How does it feel to love;
To love and then break a heart?
Is it the same feeling you have when you
Disobey the ten commandments?
It is much more pleasant a sin,
Condemning more than does fornication!
How does it feel to be young again,
And see with childhood innocence?
If granted be druthers,
Would you choose to be young again?
If it means building castles of glass
And riding unicorns in dreamland; yes!
How does it feel to know
That dreams disappear when you awake?
Does it feel like lost time wasted while
Searching for a tear drop in the ocean?
It feels as real as losing a loved one,
But less painful for no one will be gone.
How does it feel to find no answer,
When it is all you need?
Is it as thrilling as a nightmare be,
Or much more shuddery?
It hurts as much as hating,
But at times peace does bring.
Whenever I sit alone, in a most crowded cafe
I reminiscence and sink into nostalgia
How painful is the past and how regretful is my gaffe
Love, knocking on my doors, was sent to a land colder than Narnia
Young was my soul, younger than a new born
Love and life was for me, still to be explored
Unreasonable, I pushed love away and became all forlorn
Yet, only I knew how much his soul I adored
Sitting all alone at an empty table
I wish he was here, by my side
Having forgiven my temper, so unstable
Having seen through the demands hidden by my pride
And thus I sit alone, take out my diary and write of my whims
I hope, they shall be, like William's, brought out of that poor light, so dim!
Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Contest : Cafe Musings
9 February 2014
.
werdz
the need
sumtimez the
urgent
tuh spill
then again
Dear diary
she were strut'n
not stroll'n
her purty glanced at me
no
not stared
her countenance though
said
"i'm the wife you're
looking for"
Okay
but she
wink'd
Fantasy Library
Xanadu was embraced with philodendron,
Palace-like architecture, the plant went on,
and on, weaved its way around the corridor
Light luminated thru high ceilings of grandeur
As I entered the bookstore’s library atrium,
A quick lesson was gifted me on consortium
Books stacked in no discernable sequence,
encouraging readers, inviting intuitive, for instance
Systems Dewey and the congress classification,
outdated, I used the browse method simulation
Running my fingers across ridged book spines,
By published authors with classic story lines
Eyeballing velveteen varieties of book covers
Sneaking-peeks at blurbs for fantasy lovers
Sashayed my way to Banned and Challenged Books,
in the clutches of pop-up trendy chic-cozy nooks
Skimmed Ann Frank’s The Diary Of A Young Girl,
and turned satin gold-leaf edge pages of Rebecca,
gilded and burnished 24k, a gothic romance unfurled
Consortium—The new call # will begin with a 4-digit finder number. No more decimals, no more books on the same topic in several sections of the collection, or even the same title on two different places on the same shelf. Spine labels will use language of your choice and color coding. Browse your collection without having to search for a librarian
Ready When You Are
Good evening Mr Reaper
I knew one day I’d meet you
You’ve been a little tardy
But I’m ready now to greet you
Will it be a bullet
Or a knife to slit my throat
Will my heart stop beating
Will I fall out of a boat
Was I in your diary
Was I booked in for today
Was I picked at random
To be sent upon my way
I’ve seen you in the shadows
From the corner of my eye
Do you linger waiting
For some order upon high
You met my love last Monday
And our children years before
And now there’s only me to take
For I have nothing more
I’m ready as I’ll ever be
To join my loving wife
And yet you let me teeter
On this tightrope we call life
And so I take this coil
My tool to set me loose
I didn’t even know that I
Could tie a hangman’s noose
Who named the rose the flower of Love?
Or is it the flower of passion or maybe undying lust?
Was there anyone who wasn't pricked by its thorns?
Wasn't there anyone who wasn't fooled by its beauty?
Wasn't there ever a wife who tasted the salt of her tears
to the betrayal of a husband's lover?
Wasn't there ever a lover who opened the diary of life
to find the wrinkled red petal of years still in waiting
What is the rose,except the scent of imagination
choking with the fragrance of never be mine
What's in a name?Who is the rose?Who baptised this flower?
the flower of seasons,the flower who lives in the rough
hiding its nakedness of pain in delicate and strong
All a rose ever will be is a birthed flower which breeze in the feeling of
'You are so special' till you realise,all that you have in your hand is,was
A PAPER ROSE.