Long Dig into Poems
Long Dig into Poems. Below are the most popular long Dig into by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dig into poems by poem length and keyword.
it’s 12 again
i find my bare arms pressed up against the hard mirror/shower door
it lives a double life
my breath fogs up the glass
it keeps me warm
razor-like metal dig into my fingers as i grip the tweezers
it’s ironic how something so sharp can bring such comfort.
i stare at the inky dot right above the thicket of hair i call my eyebrow
only visible to the scrutinizing eye inches away
the painted lady on the surface of that unyielding metal smiles at me
i do not notice.
her unforgiving claws disguised as the honed tweezer tips stab into the flesh surrounding that jet-black dot
doing all she can to extract the imperfection
and when she finally succeeds
and the uprooted dot reveals its true identity as a helpless strand of hair
whose only crime was its misfortunate growth
i feel no remorse — rather, relief —
only the twinge of pain
and another lasting scarlet scab
right above my eyebrow
reminds me of the wave of shame soon to come
i soon forget
as i spot another dot
desiring to reignite my ritual of comfort.
An angel brought the kiss of death
With the scent of decay heavy on her breath
Hair strands like razor blades
Cutting deep into my flesh I began to fade
Heart palpitations made me panic
As the illusions in her eyes made me manic
The curse of her black magic
Brings death and despair so tragic
Her lips are carmine red
Painted with the blood of the dead
I could have set her on fire
But I'm a slave to my own desire
Her claws dig into my chest bringing pain
Covering the floor in sin and stain
Our muffled breaths are brawling
As my will to live keeps falling
Brought down to my knees
Broken and beaten I plead...please
But an angel brought the kiss of death
With the scent of decay heavy on her breath
The skin I have Black Vs The skin they wanted White It was like a lifelong competition With only one condition Whiteness wins And well blackness Loses So from young they Indoctrinated us Into believing White=advantage Black=disadvantage And if you were somewhere in the middle Well that's their decision You better hope that you get to win that competition
And who are 'they' you ask Non other than the racist system Built by the government
Are we surprised If your answer was yes You're incorrect Let's dig into that You're not surprised You have eyes You just happen to turn a blind eye Because it was never about you It doesn't affect you Why break a system Built for you You have two options
1. You can scream Or cry Or throw a temper tantrum But we don't care Huh that sounds familiar Guess you don't like when the tables have turned You can lie to yourself all you want But you know the truth And that's not something you can run from And one thing about truth it will haunt you
So the next time you want to be silent I'd think twice Cause one day they will turn on you And guess what nobody will be there to help you
Or
2. You can be mature Admit your faults And be on the right side of history Benefits you won't feel guilty I'd choose wisely
And to those who said no You'd be correct But that's something you already know So I won't stroke your ego This is the bare minimum Black people have done so much for the world So the least you could do is help stop the problem
Deprivation of my rights and freedom
Bodily autonomy, tossed out of
a terrace window, seventy-third floor
of a building in New York that touches
the same ground I walk on, yet reaches much
higher than I could ever imagine.
I scream to them, giant politicians,
but the shadow of their business loafers
overhead scare the sound from my pursed lips.
My individuality exchanged
for a man’s practicality; it seems
as though they've had their fun suppressing us
Toying with my consciousness like a cat
praying on a field mouse, so innocent.
They say: so innocent! Could I be, too?
or shall I wear my curiosity
like a garment, like an oddity for
men to squint at, confine my mind and bones
to the idea that women shouldn’t
bare the decision of what lives within;
shackles on my reproductive organs
dig into my skin like the words they spew
from hot mouths, pouring into the laps of
women, alphabet soup spelling, “no more”.
Let us breathe in the possibility
of respect and dignity, the promise
of true liberty and justice for all.
Far too powerful, they fear, women are.
THREE MINUTES TO DONE
Do I first bring water to boiling point
To time the egg from that moment on
Or from cold, to then be soft not hard
That one might be tempted to discard
But plonked in a cup, the magic’s gone
And then with a woollen cap to anoint
Not poached nor coddled, just boiled
A simple egg, with soldiers for dipping
And on the shell, one may draw a face
Then beheaded, incurring no disgrace
A clean knife cut, without any slipping
But brutally smashed, it’s easily spoiled
A delicate teaspoon must be provided
To dig into the white but after the yolk
A touch of salt and that’s quite enough
Leaving it smooth inside, never rough
It is a simple breakfast for simple folk
Three minutes is perfect, once decided
Dreaded heat wave (with slow-dancing heat haze)
Pronounces the guilt of aging Karma
And a climate so underrated rages in anger
Absolute reign of terror begins with the rising
Sun where the East is flung further North,
Unrecognisable
I tremble from the horrors of daylight,
Bemoaning the crusts of decaying barks,
Where nightmares, in broad daylight, dig into
The hallowed crevices of expired epiphanies
There’s ague on the sinciputs of infants,
Upon which a heath burns slowly with the
Severity of slow-passing time.
Summer has gone berserk.
Every breath is torture.
Kooks and ratbags —with their ragbags —antsy, but loud,
Picture scenes of cerebral disharmony
We sweat rivulets from the spines of charged forges —
Goos that trap gnats and flies atop mountains of
Fright.
Bars host drinking pilgrimages.
Oh, watering holes spring forth like onions
On the breath of running spring!
I assure you.
Longnecks perspire heavily with the chills of refrigerated
Glamour, beads of sweat raining down the frazzled
Gullets of glass and tipplers.
Barms puke profusely in the heated grace,
Bubbles rising and falling alongside temperatures
That freeze around their own fragile calendars.
The clocks tick slowly, like in an abandoned castle with wisteria,
Overgrown, burnt and ruined.
I no longer care what you think
No….
I won’t be bound by your perceptions
Your box of pain
Your misconceptions
That fall like rain
On my parade
I don’t care
What you think of the state
Of my mind
Or my love life
Or my future
My past
My dreams
My faith
My desire
I don’t care
I DON’T Care
I don’t!
I won’t be confined
I won’t be defined
I won’t be subjected to
Experiments and tests
Prodded here and here
Pressing fingers
Feeling
Groping
In a blaze of scrutinizing lights
On a cold slab of steel
Wondering what you'll find
As you dig into me
Surgical scrubs
To catch the splatter of blood
Of my insecurities
NO...
I don't care
What you find
What you see
This is me
I don’t care
I won’t live up to your standards
Been there
Done that
All my life
Coloring in the lines
When all I want is to splash vibrant emotions
On the canvas of my life
Restricted
Rules
Expectations
Do the right thing
Say the right thing
Act the right way
Think the right thoughts
I don’t care anymore
My days are numbered
I feel the tinge of death
On my lips
His hands reaching for me
Always there
In the back of my mind
There….
I don’t care
I want to live
To breathe
To laugh
To love
To speak
To dream
Dreams that no one will invade and steal
No one will take them away from me
NO!!!
I will speak!
I will say what is on my mind
And heart
And not care
About what you think
Or if you walk away
Because you are weak
I don't care
After all…
This is MY life
MINE
To win or lose
To live or die
To laugh or cry
To give up or try
My life
MINE
I don’t care…..
I
DON’T
CARE
For anyone
FOR ANYONE
But that little girl
That middle aged woman
That romantic dreamer
The idealist
The believer
The lover
The dreamer
That carefree woman
Who lives and breathes
And moves
Inside of me!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Mountains are part of life’s journey,
They’re obstructions that separate us from our treasures,
They’re impediments that divide us and the meadow,
Mountains are signposts to greener pastures.
Each day I see strengthens me to move mountains,
Each night I’m chauffeured through pulls me up the mountain,
The closer I get to the Father,
The higher it takes me up mountains,
The deeper I dig into His Word,
The better cliffhanger I become.
Though some mountains are recalcitrant,
They’re restraints to keep me on track,
They’re pride pruners,
They remind me that I’m not superhuman.
Visions aid me to move mountains,
The future I see strengthens my feeble hands.
February 11, 2024.
I am a school counselor
Who tries to leave the pain I see at school
Or on a school bus
Unfortunately, some of it follows me home
Gives me nightmares, makes me second guess myself.
Empathy does not fix problems
So when I am depleted, discouraged,
When I am upset that I cannot take a child
And keep her safe or make things better
I dig into the dirt, and I plant something
I plant trees, bushes, and all kinds of flowers
My yard looks like a botanical garden
I call it dirt therapy and it is the only thing
That works for me.
Taking me out of pain,
Revitalizing me, and helping me to
Remember that God is in charge,
Not me.
I look up at the sun, and I smile
Understanding that it is not mine to fix.
It is His.
We weren't always dolls
Before the dolls - flesh was
RAW
and torn
Before we were dolls we could rip open our skin
and bare it to the world
and when a little girl peered inside
everything was new and unseen
but flesh got harder to dig into
and tear
and stretch over a canvas
and all the little girls grew impatient
for it had been a long time since they had seen something new
so the little girls tapped on our skin with gnarled hands
and crooned
open up
let us see
but we didn't
we couldn't
open up please
let us see
its been too long
but our skin was fully hardened then
plastic as a penny
LET US IN
they screeched
and clawed at our skin
but it didn't yield
when our pretty pink lips parted in protest
only echoes came out
and a little girl leaned in
maybe to peer through our mouths into our stomachs
maybe to taste the blankness
but when it did
it choked
its mouth filled with pounds and pounds of fluff and nothing
whispers of when skin was made
to be torn
and little girls didn't dull their fingernails down
scratching at doll flesh