Long Dissect Poems
Long Dissect Poems. Below are the most popular long Dissect by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dissect poems by poem length and keyword.
I know that I could wrap myself
All around your sour little frame
I could swarm your life with warmth
Known only in forsaking dreams
I know that I could see into your lies
And dissect the poetry out of them
I could make you so beautiful
While you float in your sham
Inch by inch you reach your doom
And you know it by now—
A heart like yours
Is meant to consume!
Tell me, liar,
And liars to come,
Why should you fear
What we already know?
Why should I not embrace you so
Despite every abyssal blow?
I will cross you stricken by this truth
That when you lose—as liars do,
There will be another fool
To slither your life into
I could let you rest
Into my soulful acceptance
I could help you begin a life of promise
With the remnants of your deceit
Yet I know I must—in a blink,
Release you in your trails of ink
And find my way to clearer waters,
Where tears are more assuaging
Than your fibs of consequence
By-lanes of my mind
When I write, its verbose;
When I don’t, I am short of words;
Write with flair and respect, brevity is a gift;
They remind me as my jargon filled words they dissect.
All this is internalised,
The lips quiver, pen shakes in hands that shiver,
Prove it, prove you’re not redundant,
I don’t care, even though I know,
I announce with a reluctance,
Accusations of plagiarism, lack of character
Clash with inspirations and new ideas
In the by-lanes of my mind.
Be hard-working, be ambitious, be selfish,
Go easy, nice &slow, be selfless & kind,
Drop a ‘why’, before you’re like this,
And watch a dance of doubts take place
On a pile of now rotting, what was once innocent bliss
In all of this, clarity I must find
In the by-lanes of my mind.
Losing to a six-inch screen,
What do you mean?
What they think is an addiction,
Started as an interest or just a connection,
Last I remembered, they assigned a task,
Quickly build something was their ask,
Obscure, DIY, mundane
Genuine stuff that wears no mask
Not efficiency driven factory line production,
Effervescent, slow burning, WIPs, one to one banter
Through my perceived small screen addiction,
I promote everyday connection.
Ideas are trivial,
Your words a bore,
In exchange for truckloads of attention,
That we unloaded upon your door,
You must give more.
You put the cart before the horse;
In delivering this undeserved fame, is what I said;
Now, a talent, an assembly line of heroics I must find;
This is the thought racing through the by-lanes of my mind.
#My_intentions_are_pure
I think I made it obvious, think I made it very clear, that I was here to build, to restore and to love, to share the lil im offered, if not my entirity, my intentions laid bare on the table for you to dissect and make your own conclusion, in my heart there's nothing concealed except sharing it only with you.
From afar I may look troublesome, maybe is the distance you taking towards me, a distance I have created, the wall you build around you to protect yourself, aginst me, I know my imperfections and have made peace with them, brake that wall and get closer, closer to be able to hear and see clearly true resembles of my heart and intentions, trust is like Rome, a day can never be enough to built it
If my intentions were to harm, long would I have failed my calling, for I'm obligated and mandated to love, to protect and share my heart with the near and afar, long have I being your most uncomfortable space to be around, your danger but deep inside me, heaven can attest I intended not, maybe to be human is to err, like the image I was made from
It's cold here and gets more colder with watching you from a distance , maybe a distance with my actions I have pushed you to, but your presence fills the gaps, the absence and takes away the coldness, my heart coldness, my peace stability, gaze back and watch how lost and restless my soul and life are, open your heart and forgive my wrongs for I'm striver into perfection.
Look pass my wrongs and allow me to mend my ways, change my approach for intentions in me are ready to learn to fix and do things right this time around if not better
Open thy heart, thy mind and thy soul to see clearly the real position and intentions of my heart towards you, thought I was clear, obvious that in you I blossom, germinate as a new seed of starting all over again, this time for the better if not greatness, see through me, dissect my inner intensions, for my intentions are pure
#Poetic_Ink
I catch my own eyes in the bathroom mirror
before I even turn the cold water on.
I watch every quiet, hopeful plan I made
get quietly picked apart and gone.
I wear this skin, I answer to my name,
I’m the author of every doubt I hide.
I pull down my own small victories
and stand my own worst foe, inside.
When 5 a.m. hits with its pale blue light
and promises a second chance to try,
I drag out old mistakes from years ago
just to give myself a reason why.
I tell myself I am not man enough,
that every step forward is a fake,
that the moment things get steep or real
I’ll bend beneath the weight and break.
I sit at my desk in the afternoon slump,
building a maze out of unread mail.
I lock the doors, throw away the keys,
and then wonder why I’m set to fail.
I dissect every single word I said,
turning harmless moments into debt.
I don't need anyone to tear me down,
I haven't even given myself a chance yet.
And yet I'm the one who holds the pen,
the one who keeps writing out the fear.
If I'm the architect of all this noise,
I'm the only one who can clear it from here.
The world feeds on tragedy, with an insatiable hunger for misfortune,
They demand confessions, not out of care, but to dissect and devour the soul,
When I reveal my pain, their eyes become glassy with disgust,
And their pity drips like acid on my open and bleeding wounds.
Perhaps that's why I've made my sadness a "nameless grave,"
A place I visit alone, away from prying eyes,
Where no one can turn my pain into a fleeting spectacle,
Where silence weaves veils over memories and unshed tears.
There, in the dark silence, I bury my sufferings one by one,
Away from eyes that wish to turn my story into a show,
I have found a sanctuary where the echoes of pain are my silent confidants,
And only shadows keep me company in this dance of lost souls.
It is a place where I can breathe without feeling the weight of curious gazes,
A space where pain is not a phenomenon but a part of me,
A corner of the world where silence whispers solace and secrets,
And where, ultimately, I learn to embrace my own darkness.
Look at the traffic in front of you, they are moving in a parallel direction, something is going on over there that is causing the people to fear, my aunt is trapped behind the doors looking through the little peep hole, my cousin is stationed behind the window curtain with an AK47 assault rifle position to shoot if someone breaks through the roof, and my niece is standing on the toilet bowl stroking her cute cat, too scared to venture outside. It was just a little before mid-day when the people gather in the Sancturary to pray, they stand in a big circle and hold hands and the leader spread incense in the space and swing the crucifix Infront of their faces and chant some words unfamiliar to the ears, and the line gets thicker, and my emotions grows bigger. Look at the drawing Infront of you, it is trying to tell you something about me and you; the bald eagle standing on the power line with a message printed on its face and its eyes moving all over the place. How did we get here I don't know but my heart began to fear but the universe put it all together. Take it or leave it and if you are in doubt, just wave your hand and shout, I will be standing behind the cross line and I will be waiting for you there. Take a good look at the exterior lines and dissect the interior lines and there is a transversal line sitting within the interior angle and you can alternate before it's too late. You must break out of the parallel line and get on the supplementary line get between the angles that runs from north to south and from, east to west and let equator do the rest. The line has pivot in front of you and you have finally got the breakthrough. Take me to the intersection and let me touch the plane, there is enough distance between the lanes and the value is way above me. The ellipse was just in time to rescue me from the parallel bind.
Bug Destiny
Round tiny bug moves slow along the garden path
Avoiding traffic as it trudges along
Carries the hardened armor of its ancestry
Down there too, through the centuries
The weight of that nobility
With it, on its back, through history
Portals of time laid out in its direction
Its lineage developed skills for battles
In darkened bitter caves
With aging somber rocks in far off lands
And along the seasoned shores
Over millions and billions of years
Ants search day and night for this small creature
Little round bugs are a staple on their menu
They will not rest until
This morsel is served up in honor of their queen
Solo insect as black as death
Stands by in armor ready
Ants take their forces onward against the drop of day
Their tiny march relentless, endless and grave
Black bug hunkers down in his encasing
Waiting In case bad things should happen
And to survive another day
The army attacks
Storms in on solo bug in stark surprise
With concise incisions ready
Sharp mandibles set to dissect it on the spot
Little bug has one last trick
It tastes of sour and stinky feet
The ants retreat defeated
Round bug makes its rounds about the garden gate
In its cultivated aged defense makes it to another day
Future generations will praise this day
That kept their kind alive
Depriving queen ant of a nasty meal
Of destinies surprise
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
In the ethereal dance of destiny, where shadows whisper secrets,
the critics stand on their lofty peaks, unseen sentinels of judgment.
They gaze upon the battlefield below, where souls tread the fine line
between valor and ruin, with hearts laid bare to life's storm.
Like silent vultures soaring above, they wait for the dust to settle,
with cold, calculating eyes as the carnage unfolds.
Heroes and dreamers collide in the arena of existence,
with spirits ablaze with the fire of purpose and passion.
In the aftermath of battle, when the echoes of swords fade,
and the air thickens with the scent of victory and loss,
the critics descend, with feathers sharp as daggers,
ready to pierce the weary hearts of the survivors.
They do not see the blood and sweat, the tears and dreams
that have stained the battlefield with the hues of sacrifice.
Their words, detached, dissect the remnants with clinical precision,
dismissive of the struggles, the scars, the silent stories etched in living flesh.
Yet, under the scrutinizing gaze, under the penetrating stare,
the survivors stand, resilient as ancient oaks in a storm,
with roots deeply embedded in the soil of their lived truths.
They carry within them the silent resonance of battles fought and endured,
countless lives entwined in the fabric of their being.
The critics' words are but fleeting arrows,
lost in the vast landscape of the soul's uncharted depths.
For the true essence of the warrior's spirit remains unstained,
a luminous thread woven into the tapestry of existence.
And when the sun sets on the battlefield, casting long shadows,
the survivors rise, bearing the weight of their stories with grace,
with hearts testifying to the beautiful struggle to be,
their lives a poignant symphony of resilience against the relentless tide.
since when did you care about what your parents thought
their trembling hands clutching dusty photo albums,
dreams for you etched in whispers,
like the fine print on a warranty you never read.
smart, they said,
smart enough to untangle the wires,
but never the knots in your chest.
immortal—they wanted you invincible,
a timepiece that slowed down
only for holidays and funerals,
never noticing that your hours burned faster than theirs.
abstinence, they prayed,
as if purity were a shield
against the sharp teeth of the world,1
but science taught you
the chemistry of craving,
the physics of loneliness,
the biology of need.
they wanted you science-oriented,
but you learned to dissect their dreams,
and the heart, you found,
was just another organ
pumping blood
into someone else's expectations.
So since when did you care?
you don't.
you never did.
broke and trying to raise two kid's
before age twenty.