Long Disfigured Poems
Long Disfigured Poems. Below are the most popular long Disfigured by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disfigured poems by poem length and keyword.
I know that dire lame dope head
tried to frame me nicking his moped
planned to leave it near my house
after which learn of its whereabouts
then say he saw me sneak about
the night his bike was nicked
when he would claim without a doubt
that I must have stolen it
but he had to drive it up to mine and that’s when his plan went south
he went and lost his balance as he fell off and hit the ground
discovering when he got back up his bike wouldn’t start again
so the plan he had planned out was clearly not happening
so he changed the story and would say
I nicked it fell off it then ran away
as he watched through the window pane
claiming that is what he saw
but when you look out of the window the view is blocked by a brick wall
completely blind to the road where he says he watched me fall
if you think he’s bloody stupid there’s one more thing to hear
I was in Cyprus at the time yet he thought I was here
so he still made accusations saying I nicked his bike
when I was in different country and it’s a vehicle I don’t like
he forgot that when everyone had a bike I didn’t care
thinking his desire to own a bike must be one that we all share
when I said bikes don’t interest me he said that is a lie
the thing is I had gone abroad and that’s a strong alibi
but if he had the awareness to realise at the time
he’d set me up when I was able to do the crime
and that would make it a case of his word against mine
and I would have disfigured Dom’s face leaving him blind
so he’d be left with eyes that work as well as his mind
the dialogue and the time have flowed,
then the night came and rolled over the pavement
with opening its huge and dark wings
embracing armful fallen leaves in her breast,
and goes leaving a romantic whistle behind
the two hearts, smaller and larger, those have swallowed dialogue
though come together, the four suspicious eyes were going
to different directions with their own hardened thoughts
for the truth from the untruth
the taste being bitterer and more unbearable,
and for distressing perjury, the moment was much too long
the groundless tales that lain yonder the thickened wall
were spreads before in vision broadly
and empty hearts, which hearts do not know, even that is
the real desire; yet, desiring to have the things that are worthless
and unable to get, were going far away without destination
oh, what a miserable moment it is? as time goes by
the day called tomorrow will certainly visit again
and for awkward to look bright sun the perjury
again to be repeated for it became an obstinate habit
after all; when in alone and not one eye stares at,
toss around the floor holding the deep scar in heart
and cry out loudly
and run after wretched untrue truth
for perjury leaves these agony and pain
in the disfigured heart
I am tastefully distraught,
Slanted with a poor posture.
A lonely...grotesque figure.
I am bold, not in confidence,
But in my flaws...with a beautiful mind.
My austere soul screams
Buried thoughts put to pen
Describe...the battered life I lived,
From the perspective of a genius.
My graphic appearance terrifies
But the beauty of my words balance,
With tortured and unique imagery.
My blemished existence,
Serves a higher purpose.
My smudged exterior...captured,
For the world to see and know.
I am the blurred dream
That became a reality,
Through the medium of art.
I am the disfigured face,
That served as a muse.
So often imagined, sketched, and painted
By the hands...of Francis Bacon!
I am a poet...
___________________________
Inspired by Francis Bacon's work
Rowing a boat alone, where did he go?
Just like a floating leaf, in the river named oblivion.
Where did the lonely man go? In the river under the watery
autumnal sky where the moss grows even in the running water
because many suns and moons yet to look up
in deepening spirit of the water. For the loneliness unbearable,
the leaf strays, as if the shadow of lonely wanderer
is pushed by a gust of wind, goes along all about in the swift current.
Entrusted the passing cloud with loneliness more then he can bear,
the leaf visited an old home other side of the hill, but alas,
she was not there, the leaf found was the footmarks
of her and his imprinted on the deserted path.
The leaf traces the old memories in the moon
that disfigured by the ripples from drops of her tears,
wandering in a field of reeds thinking her beautiful image,
the affectionate personality unforgettable in the fading memories
with the passing of time. Where did he go? The lonely man
who was embracing the howling wind, crying.
Asleep before the head hits the pillow
Head filled with vivid colors swirling, amassing, mixing outside the lines
Transgressions grow skyward like a bean stalk becoming a giant
Worries wander aimlessly like a cat in the night looking for a spoon
Hurts pound again, and again, first a drumstick then a sledge hammer
The kaleidoscope of confusion rotates ever faster, bed spins counter
Places cannot be escaped
Faces stare as if clothes have been robbed
Running, Flying, Drowning, Suffocating, Garbling Words, Can’t Breath,
Slow Motion, Falling, Insatiable Hunger, Unquenchable Thirst, Blood Stained, Shouting
Loaded Down, Frantically Searching Pockets, Hidden Underneath, Forgotten
Fear. All fears. Nothing but fear. Afraid. Regret. Worry. I didn’t. I really did!
Each day we pack our pockets. Cram our purses. Load our backpacks
Hang needless objects and things around our necks, over our shoulders, in the crux of our elbows, on our belts
Grip suitcases. Carry stuffed plastic grocery bags on each knuckle. Waddling to the side of the bed before crashing head on
Unknowingly still pinching the key between our left thumb and pointer finger
Hitting the bed with a massive crash
every part of the day strewn around the room like a devastating mid air explosion of a 747 littering debris, miles and miles of destruction, charred remnants, unidentifiable and randomly placed objects, out of place, disfigured, often never found
Before your head hits the pillow
Drop the things you picked up today
Take a load off
Free yourself of your burdens
Neatly set everything aside
On second thought, just pile it and let it lay where it falls
Drop your yoke
Sit down on the foot of the bed with God
Hand Him the things you still cling within sweating red fists
Briefly Examen your day
Fall asleep on His shoulder
He will gently lay your head on the pillow, loft your feet off the floor, and tuck you in.
Let Him carry your burdens, lighten your load, unpack, empty your pockets, wash your laundry, even sort and match the socks.
Travel to sleep lightly and peacefully dreaming of a new day
carrying nothing but what is truly needed.
In Memory of Giulio Regenti – a useless killing
We carried him on our shoulders
Crying our hearts out.
Annihilated Time had no meaning.
Comfort seemed a helpless fairytale.
Inside lay the tortured disfigured body
Of a twenty-year old mutilated beyond repair.
A young man, brilliant and promising,
Killed by suspicion of being a spy.
Who could dare comfort his bereaved relatives?
Or assure his fiancée of his undying love?
Time might heal all wounds but not the deprivation
Of a life once full of vitality, now lacking style of life.
Meantime those that remain had to deal with kisses
Handshakes, tender hugs and tears.
But can anyone forget the unknown murderers?
Can anyone suppress the hate that now festers in us?
Forgive? Can we forget? Some might try, others not,
That’s when we realized that the youth was really dead.
Killed, tortured slowly by unknown persons in Egypt. He was studying Egyptian Economics and was mistook for a spy. The Egyptian authorities could (?) not solve his murder.
Moonlight was the only light to make streaks across
a sky full of suspense which even a thief was afraid of;
and as I dragged you along lamp-lit, narrows streets,
we seemed two ghosts wearing human masks...
but what was on our delirious minds, if not love?
Your wish was to be on the Ponte Dei Respiri to sigh and dream...
while viewing that moon with new eyes to catch that rare gleam,
but the quickest way to get there was to wave down a gondolier! But there was
no space as thousands of people, wearing masks, were riding in those gondolas...
without despairing, we stopped on the nearest bridge and passionately kissed!
I resembled the Phantom of the Opera without that disfigured face;
you seemed like the seductive Dodge's wife so glamorous and gleeful,
and your mask was of the loveliest blue as the sky over the Adriatic Sea...
when Saint Mark's bells rang and doves flew to revive their past glory.
Oh, darkness endure more to let our memory always be a night in Venice!
Entered in Nette Onclaud's contest,
" It's Mask Time "
Written by Andrew Crisci
One Autumn afternoon, I was forced to stall.
Across the street on a corner lawn very small,
stood a tree most beautiful and noticed by all.
Each fall I enjoyed its breathtaking autumn display.
That is, until four years ago when I moved away.
Its memory arrested and captured me a few days ago.
I was compelled to drive through my old neighborhood to experience once more that autumn tree, one of my favorite shows.
But when I arrived and turned the corner, I was saddened because that lovely tree, once so generously covered with orange leaves, was no longer there.
Its unsightly root system protruded above ground and disfigured the small lawn. It was then I understood why the tree had to go; but still, I regretted that I could no longer stare. I shall not forget those few years and brief moments we shared. It seemed that tree and I embraced each other with such a neighborly care.
11062016 Poetry Soup
Something about loose lips and loose women,
old young recollections
some too dark for conversation,
some too light for
a poetry reading.
Your face is disfigured;
when I open your page,
greying origami birds
fly out of your story
beaks carrying
lint and gilings, but something else,
a partial picture of what we left in each other.
We will cry about this one day,
after the last day perhaps.
I am modulated by memory,
by the lingering smell
of your lusts.
The slow simmer of times
throes and pangs.
Maybe by then we will
catch each other’s breaths
inhale long last drops,
bundled together
as close as new bled lambs.
Rather than the light of the day
why does the owl soar in the darkened night sky?
Does the owl soar in the darkened night sky
avoiding dazzling daylight because it’s painful
to watch the terribly misshapen humans
creeping on the earth to find their place?
Or because it’s so pitiful to watch the ugly disfigured humans
struggling to embrace one another in order to lessen the pain
in place of the hardship that makes the day?
Otherwise, there would be no reason for the owl to soar
in the nocturnal air in a time like the exhausted souls roaming
on the path called oblivion to shake the detestable notions off
from their weary shoulders that they collected and carrying
after a day of long and hard labor under the burning sun.
It’s indeed thoughtful of the owl if that is the case,
but it really a piece of shattered long-cherished desire
that naive souls hang onto, the other desire that won’t
be realized as before.
For an opportunity comes in the alley of a difficult life
not only one step behind but visiting after it becomes
totally useless as always, the noncommittal hour arrives here
as the owl gets on the sunset glow to the way where a day hurriedly
moves forward because a day is too short to conclude as a day.
Is that why Minerva’s owl
soars in the darkening sky that sinks deeper in the night air?
Quote from Hegel, cf: The Owl of Minerva takes flight only as the dusk begins to fall