Long Digit Poems
Long Digit Poems. Below are the most popular long Digit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Digit poems by poem length and keyword.
You’ve met me,
but you just don’t know it yet
The dream house that you want,
I once polar bear hibernated there ...
two winter moons ago
The summer fruit of relaxation
that you’re tasting now,
I planted it
two prior vineyard cycles
I’ve always been double moves ahead,
my checkered past
taught me keen ways
to escape poverty dread
The slum lord pitchfork
tossing that Ebenezer heavy eviction bale,
tried to do the Scrooge pinch
But me knew da Judas outcome of da sell
You’re a patsy-come-lately,
a puppet bought for sure foreswore
Tho’ a couple chiggers too twenty-something slow,
worms like you
got oasis left in the wilderness dust forty years ago
What you wanna see,
I already seen
I’m always two pillow turns ahead
in your dream
What you wanna do,
I’ve already done
Me always be two rabbit hops ahead
of your turtle run
Here’s the six-digit green lumber
you need to cellblock 8 learn
The lockup combination number
to make those tumblers turn
My moves are two steps ahead
Me be a r-Evolving, double smoking barrel —
twice-pulled trigger click hot lead
You’re a patient zero, broken wing sparrow:
double goose egg, game over dead
I’m always two giant steps ahead
Where I’m ultra solar at
is where you really orbital wanna be
Meesa is a quantum grasshopper high five,
and you’re a gravity locust low three
I live in your twin borrowed tomorrow,
two steps above your ire paygrade
Truth trimming lie bacon is how I get paid
Two floors down at prime usury sorrow,
open pawn shop roasting in shade ...
You’re a pet loan shark getting chum made
I’m always thinking two steps ahead,
delivering ancient sayings that was future said
Meesa gon make your puffy jaws red,
two steps backwards is where your hubris bled
Where me be perched,
is where you’re trying to DNA air flow
I’m four wind birthed,
you’re a deuce snake eye on a belly roll
Me two steps ahead,
just so you know
You’re frozen in place,
minus-two below
I’m living at the kiss end of the Snow White story,
and you ain’t even got a singularity event Black Hole clue
Me 9 generation Lives looking thru a supernova rearview,
your Seven Dwarves tardy situation is inert glory
Two slave wage fettered steps ahead,
is how it’s always gonna be
Eating my Thanksgiving meal on your Labor Day,
is so Easter morning worthy
I am a master in my eyes, a master in disguise. So cleverly concealing pertinent feelings of thoughts, one's intrusive dealings, that are boiling my insides. A wizard behind a curtain, that’s how this all feels. A brick road made of corpses, with one's past life’s dealings preserved, paved and sealed. A heart, a brain, and courage are the lesser of my wants. Something I truly desire is to be free from all the standards that are expected of me. To simply have the ability to understand the world as a whole, instead of society’s pressure and expectancy of things that shine organically. I know Diamonds are produced under mass pressure brought on by their surroundings. I refuse to walk with people who claim to have hearts, when their actions show other, and their minds think in one-digit parts. I sometimes wish I could just click my heels together and poof, new start. Just trek on, over stones along my path. I can’t help but wonder, if someone is pressing buttons and pulling strings behind a curtain and all that, yeah it sounds crazy when you say that out loud. Sometimes I feel that it is that, for certain.. somehow. All these Pictures of my life and the stories that they tell, have now become tortuous memory prisons, tiny painful cells. So, I won't hope for more memories, no new energy, no thank you. In fact, I'd like it if there was a wizard behind a curtain somewhere. It is almost comforting to know for certain somebody is pulling strings, removing human beings from the remaining veil-covered living we are dieing to exist. Yet still, our existence we squander. Aimlessly following a road shamelessly, no self-awareness, just people playing contrary-to-action, games with questioning. I don’t want your heart that is made of stone, or your brain which is composed of birds nesting sticks and air alone, and what you consider courage is like a rat in a tiger’s home, fear coats him and only fear alone. I am not mad at what character past plays that you've been casted, because honestly your past warped acting and idea of what is, has made the brickroad a path truth seekers take comfort in. A road to somewhere, no one really knows. A journey to a curtain way past the light, covering a being who says what goes, what is certain, and what is right.
I rise from my feathered comfort, one only achieved with torture
My deal with the devil gives warmth and I shower until the steam tickles my throat
Long enough to wash off the blood
My feet are cuddled in bodies as I descend to my breakfast of victims
Washed down with the elixir of exploitation: black beans and mother's white tears
Satiated, I gather keys to the poison cart and join the other killers
Sadness and suffering on the hour while we monsters trickle forward towards the financers
Arrival and I take a dangerous breath, one I contribute to by my being
Working hard until lunch, when I hail Caesar and his cadaver accomplice
Back to the toil as the clones finish off him or her
I dream of my evening freedom, life releasing a whine as blood and root combine
The watched leg-like hand reaches the glorious digit and we rise
Herded up the raceway, I reach my stunning box
I contemplate myself and our species as we slow into the jam, lots of flavours but ultimately the same
I see myself in a consumers window to my soul
I question and define us, painful though it is
Destroyer through choice or willful ignorance multiplied in a never-ending stream of blood
Back at the cave my appetite has left, I turn to the box of distraction to aid my escape
Confirmation hits hard and I recoil as drought, famine and extremes seem a normal condition
If suffering is sought, we will never disappoint; as war rages, be relieved of your position in this rat race
Depressed I retreat, battered and bruised
Wrapped in softness I sink, deflated
I turn the sadness, pages of another life, and the realisation that equilibrium sought will never be balanced
So many are under the scales of the demon and equality is just a word with little meaning to the victim
I drift towards tomorrow feeling both sorry and relieved, sad but secure, sick while fed
The luck of my location means I suffer the least, how cruel and ironic this moral compass
The West is the beast, so many sheep missing a good shepherd
I finally arrive that tomorrow can be different, no need for madness as Einstein defined
I can be the hero of my little life, bee the change, from something I despise
I have woken I'm finally released, no joint enterprise of suffering, no more a sheep
2025.2.26
Dear A, today would have been your 90th birthday.
Thank you for being my friend, neighbor, and be your carergiver.
I remember all those songs,
You sang in your language.
You had such strong lungs and soprano voices.
I also remember you said,
"Where have you been all my life?"
You repeated that quite few times.
Each time, I just sang "You needed me" by Anne Murray.
Then one day, from your kitchen's window,
Behind the venetian blind
I clearly heard you sang a beautiful song.
Which I heard on the radio, when I was little.
I rang and asked you for the title.
You said "La Paloma", that was it.
On the very next visit,
I brought along my harmonica.
That day, we had so much fun
With singing and playing music.
Eventually. I played the piano,
You sang your favourite songs along my melodies.
Over the time, I was surprised and revered for
Your abilities to overcome all kind of issues.
When you helped me moving in my unit.
All you wanted was a bottle of whisky.
All my life, I hated surprises.
But you did it very nice,
On my birthday, with two digit candles,
On a small chocolate icing cake.
You surprised me with your singing.
My tears ran down on my cheeks.
I did not like surprise but I was happy.
Never before I was spoiled like what you did.
Since that day, I warned you,
Never surprised me again.
Guessed what, my friend, you never listen.
You bought me present on each special occasions.
From that day, we celebrated our birthdays every year,
In 2019, I celebrated yours in hospital.
Dear A, have I told you,
Through out my adult life,
You were the first and the only one,
Who continued giving me pleasant surprises.
I still kept those burnt digit candles.
I would proudly say to everyone,
Of all the people I know,
Whether related or pretended,
All their loves could not add up to yours.
What more precious was,
You taught me how to,
Love someone truly and unconditionally.
Today, here I knee in front of your grave,
Besides the usual offerings as always
Reading you this poem will be a surprise gift.
Thank you for loving me,
Thank you for being my truest friend.
Thank you my dear,
Thank you and may you rest in peace.
Thinking of you always.
Ever had a boss fall in love with you completely of their own accord
a lingering dream or fantasy their life cannot afford
alive through their entitlement believing love’s assured
for them to then discover that their presence is ignored
Then in their heartbroken state claim that you led them on
just to reel them in to then decide the feelings gone
when really not a word was spoken as you are not that fond
yet after still they seek revenge because you’ve done them wrong
And as their so repellent they only have one skill
to spread a load of stories that’ll change how people feel
but let down by their eagerness as their tales don’t fit the bill
I am a familiarity to those hearing descriptions far from real
Relying on their employment stature to come across authentic
thinking as they are your boss they’ve access to the gossip
and therefore when they talk of you there’s truth in every topic
even though they play no part in your life outside the office
Warning members of the opposite sex not to even bother
because you’ll use them just to lose them and find yourself another
as that is all you ever do because you’re a selfish bugger
while your boss has got no life at all so obsess on you forever
Nobody wants to be their lover as they’re so unattractive
nobody wants to be their friend so it’s you they interact with
getting you is their whole life only work sees them distracted
all they do is slander on looking a tragic spastic
This is the only focus of their one digit IQ
they even try to set you up but you can see right through
whilst all day investigations spawn from rumours about you
when just for fun you make one up too bonkers to be true
yet still somehow believed by your boss who’s clearly clueless
and spends the next four hours seeking evidence to prove this
idiotic rumour that they think will make you jobless,
have you had a deluded boss whose wet dreams leave them pissed!?
I have had a boss like this and can say it's not too fun,
especially when they are a munter who out of ten gets a none,
with a repellent personality and less braincells than a plum,
I'd rather stick my dingaling inside the flaming Sun!!
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang
back into the womb
versus being threatened
courtesy beastie boy gang
beating me to a pulp
after accurately discerning
being scared less pang
suddenly imagining myself
buffered, and buttressed
within zen Sibyl
prophet table Chinese philosophy
known as Yin and Yang.
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
haint got any got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
O Magog,
from the sterile land of Gog,
thou rejoicest over how thy biological idol father
hast devilishly embraced thee
Spiritual mathematics
offer free radical theorems
of probability analysis
Doth thy Gentile nuclear goggles
allow thee to see
the virtual microbe mushrooming variables
in a decaying half-life reality?
O bastard son
of a thousand fathers
Raised on sour milk doctrines,
from the hard paps —
Udders on an impudent heifer mother
of a thousand harlots,
has weaned thee
in the ways of greed and destruction
Canst thy cannibal siblings,
Tiras and Meshech,
help save thee
with their scientific, canine calculations?
O Magog,
from the mutated land of Gog,
will thy incestuous father’s
Tubal-cain covetous leprosy
overtake thee?
Thou loveth thy beauty spots
inordinately
Brimstone salt cities of wanton lasciviousness
pepper thy mutilated land
The merchants of concupiscence
travel ceaselessly upon thy algorithm waves
Slavishly trafficking tainted wares exponentially
in thy free marketplaces
As the integer worms of digital reproach
feed upon the Kittim kabuki faces
Probability analysis
predict with prescient accuracy:
The radioactive remnants
of a cancerous tumor civilization,
shall struggle mightily
to revive it’s flag half-mast past glory
O Magog,
the war dogs of death
howl oppressively for thee
Thy merchant ghost ships
of Tarshish
has become floating debris
Glowing green false profit wreckage
washes upon
thy polluted Gog shores continually
O Magog,
who shall account for thy losses?
Does not the tabulated numerical conclusion
reveal the astronomical costliness
of thy prolific, propagating cloned vanity?
Which of thy mariner children
shall read
the technological epitaph
on thy submerged Titanic tombstone?
Triple digit uncertainty doth statistically vex thee ...
because of the frightening probability analysis,
which thou vile reptilian mind didst not take heed
O Magog,
chief Gentile prince
from the barren hinterland of Gog —
There is no upraised hand
to retrieve thy dropped divining scepter
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.
Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.
Dr. Ram Mehta
==============================================
Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet
No objection to cold weather, but...
ah jest wanna boomerang back into the womb
to escape unrelenting forbidding gloom.
perhaps cuz mine generation
nsync with baby boom.
No matter birth canal
long since got breached,
countless (three plus) scores of years
I quickly grew
impossible mission to plunge
(think Nestea commercial)
headfirst back into utero,
yours truly haint got any
handy dandy blues clue,
nonetheless said wish -
I broach to you,
whether ye reside in Baku
Guangzhou
Kalamazoo
Kathmandu
Peru
Thimphu
Timbuktu.
Sudden pang roared awake
nsync like blazing saddles
hot enough to sizzle steak
torpid, humid, and
arrid extra dry to take
breath away analogous vacuumed
courtesy fire breathing dragon
chilling parched scales in great lake
already this doubting
Thomas doth hanker
for global warming yore
less than six months ago
geesh for goodness sake,
when Earth did bake
triple digit temperatures
no thirst could slake,
thus intravenous feeding
in tandem with trach
still inadequate to brake
yours truly did pine... for chill
against dehydration, ah only to wake,
when came the morrow,
where Jack and Jill
sweat buckets, this
before they climbed uphill
akin to madding crowd
clamoring, thirsting, gulping...
every last drop
essentially emptying damn
immense reservoir spill
futilely swilling parched lips till...
Old cranks shrugged off
exceptionally hot weather, and did scoff
younger generation's creature comforts
old geezers recalled
back in the day
as laddies and Tom boy
lassies did slough
no trespassing signs
skinny dipping after they shuck off
clothes giddily swinging
atop highest bough
playing hooky averse
learning would ever payoff
pitying other kids in school
former gathering rosebuds...
around lunchtime hunger
relishing stealing stroganoff
under nose of Mister Groff,
one former German World War II,
who colluded with American "boys"
despite heavily decorated luftwaffe
and posthumously honored
Veterans day getting last laugh!
REFINING AND MAINLINING HYPERBOLE
Something reliable, desirable, easily obtainable and consistently good
So a junkie best know the right neighborhood
The right junkie to see who won’t stab you in the back
And who doesn’t have a deck of five aces to stack
Some junkies have held eights and aces and lived to tell the tale
When the “dead man hand’s” reputation came to fail
But tragically the guy with five aces came to die
It seems the number five was one digit too high
And that’s simply what happens when a junkie plays poker and bets too steep to boot
This, of course, is all hypothetical hyperbole for a hypodermic and the dope that some junkie wants to shoot
And a junkie who won’t shoot him in his attempt to shoot his way out of a showdown with death
While a junkie named, appropriately enough, “Junkie” on Eighty-Ninth Street and Lex takes his final breath
Because his old lady named, appropriately enough, Lady
As I always suspected, turned out to be Lady, a lady who was shady
And I find it unspeakable that a junkie wouldn’t warn another about a hot shot
Which, in junkie parlance, means the shot is hot but his body will soon be not
Because one grows room temperature rapidly after a hot shot amidst the stench of rotting flesh and muscle melting into a putrid mess
But don’t expect Lady, the shady lady, to ever confess
****….that junkie named Junkie owed Lady’s ex-old man too much money for a junkie named Junkie to owe
And Lady knew where Junkie hid a kilo of blow……….
To this day Lady the shady lady will tell you that she had no choice
And of course blames it on a chick no one but Lady seems to have known named Joyce
Whose dad owned a Rolls Royce
And whose half-Asian half American Indian step brother had a beautiful soprano singing voice
But that’s neither here nor there
However, I will tell you what is obstinately and obviously clear
A junkie better know the right neighborhood
Because the acrid aroma and stagnating stench of rotting flesh don’t smell very good
© 2012……free cee!