Long Distorts Poems
Long Distorts Poems. Below are the most popular long Distorts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Distorts poems by poem length and keyword.
The day was gorgeous. The air was crisp. The wind brought high tides to the sparkling blue ocean. The white, foamy waves were dancing and the music was magical. The water was reaching further and further up to the shore. The persistent rises and falls of the sea water were very mesmerizing. She walked close to the water on the shore thinking about the gravitational force. It was a new moon night the night before. She thought about how moon’s gravity distorts the ocean and makes the tides. The Sun and the moon together make exceptionally high tides when they are roughly aligned. The gravitational forces of the sun and the moon acting together make larger than average tides, which are spring tides. They have nothing to do with the upcoming spring though! She was awestruck by the view. Suddenly her attention got caught by a beautiful sight of graceful pelicans gliding effortlessly on the horizon. The endless landscape of crashing waves of the blue, vast ocean awakened profound links within. She felt bliss, her questions were answered.
DEPRESSION
Depression is like a hole in the ground
that sucks you in a different ground,
where it's dark, no matter what time of day
and you're alone, night and day, to stay.
It invades and ravages your mind.
It distorts your thoughts
and disrupts your way of thinking.
It numbs your senses and feelings.
You have no idea how depression
steals your joy, your control, your soul
and how it robs your well-being,
for you become empty, helpless
and start questioning your being.
You are there physically;
however, you are not really there totally.
You look at the well-meaning people around you;
but you feel they are not really there for you,
for they have no idea, no clue
of what you are going through.
For some, they are able to get better overtime,
as time heals, and are able to cope again.
For some, depression turns into addiction,
as they get addicted to the medication.
For some, they choose the path that is deadly,
as for them, there is no love, no emotional support, no money,
no pills or medication, no rehab or therapy
would cure the overwhelming melancholy.
Nothing will make it wholesome again,
nothing will let them see the light again
for all they feel is the sadness and all they see is the darkness
and they are stripped of hope and take their own lives.
In the depths of thought, where memories blend with dreams,
I walk a path of shadows and lights, where experiences weave in silence,
A voice whispers of the trap of generalization, a labyrinth of illusions,
Where each personal story is a distinct universe, a solitary galaxy.
That woman, with eagle-like steps, turned her love into guidance,
Seeking truths in messages and shadowed street corners of uncertainty,
But each of her gestures, a metaphor of fear, built walls between hearts,
The advice given to a friend became an echo that shattered the silence of love.
A coffee thrown in the tumult of a business meeting, a symbol of mistrust,
Turned into a storm of tears and reproaches,
Bitter words and rash gestures, a play without a script,
In which unseen details rewrote the ending, a divorce that closed chapters.
Understanding, an unfathomable labyrinth, where each detail is a key,
And ignorance, a monster that distorts reality,
In the flow of consciousness, I wonder how it would have been if we had looked gently,
If we had allowed mystery to tell its silent story.
In a world of mirrors and reflections, where nothing is identical,
Experiences melt away, like snowflakes, unique and unrepeatable,
And perhaps the lesson is to look with open eyes, to listen with the heart,
Not to dramatize absurdly, but to embrace uncertainty as an old friend.
I have studied the mirror
until it spoke back—
not with truth,
but with hunger.
There is an individual there
who does not exist
unless it is seen—
and when it is seen,
it devours it's gaze
that made it.
It's love is a blade
polished to brilliance,
held out as a gift
that cuts only inward—
never itself.
It builds kingdoms
out of other people’s breath,
taxes their tenderness,
burns their doubt for warmth,
and calls it survival.
Inside it,
a child once whispered,
“I am small.”
I am vulnerable, do you not hear me?
But the whisper was buried
beneath monuments of grand design—
stone upon stone
of borrowed admiration.
It cannot bear the quiet,
for silence tells the truth:
there is no throne—
only scaffolding.
And so it fractures the world
before it can reflect on it's self clearly—
distorts, denies, divides—
until even the stars
seem to orbit it absence.
I have measured it
not in cruelty,
but in emptiness.
A void
that must consume
to feel its edges.
And still—
in the deepest chamber
where no audience follows—
It stands before a cracked mirror
that will not speak,
and fears
it never will.
I learnt a new word today.
Catatonic.
The vexatious coax of its accuracy sanctifies the burden of my reluctant existence.
The vacant faith of its salvation glorifies the redundancy of my timeworn stagnation.
The inertia of my own consciousness rouses within the weight of my repulsive apathy.
I am absent.
My reflection in the window distorts into a portal.
The pale of my skin shudders, an ashen pallet of abasing beauty.
The tremors of my skin winces, a demeaning pallet of humiliating fortune.
The curve of my lips stitch shut, a confined pallet of overflowing tincture.
The violent, lilac fuse of deprivation pounds my crimson in a bloodthirsty famine of a desperate call for condemn.
Yet, the only paragon unearthed is the vacant, potent inevitability of saturation into the voices of my own void;
I will forever remain in an absence of my own conceded mould.
To love your country,
you must commit yourself indefinetly;
there are no doubts, or fears
when it comes to defend it fervently..
do it for the sake of your family,
or your countrymen who wish for peace!
They will send you to distant lands,
away from your loved ones...
to uphold freedom and its sanctity,
and you'll shine with bravery!
Anytime peace is threatened,
you'll retaliate and engage in combat,
true soldiers always fight with self-confidence,
never retreat in any circumstance!
There'll be days of fright , of darkness and despair,
and nights to shed tears on cold pillows;
no tender eyes to glance into or arms to embrace,
but surrendering distorts your honor!
As the mission comes to its end suddenly,
and you are one of the surviivors to declare victory,
although you'll also grieve for the fallen ones:
you'll wave your flag to the calmest skies!
To love your country,
you must avail yourself of dignity
and protect its borders vigilantly;
be aware of its tremendous cost:
risk your own life,or allow
the enemy to toast!
The line "Looks like a good night to fly"
last words of a Reddit user's great-uncle referred to as Gillybilly
Gillybilly's great-uncle was a Navy pilot in WW II who flew jets for 30 years
I've been behind bars for way too long
each time a prison warden sings that same old song,
"When you've done your time Bub we will release yous"
I'd shuffle my cards then let them fall, hadn't I paid my dues?
They called it psychosis, a personality disorder that distorts reality
it seems to me I have been in here for Oh! a mere eternity!
"Unable to understand his wrongful actions, cuff those guys!" they said,
I replied, "Its a good day to die" in my killer clown's disguise
When the Commissioner said, " go ahead release him " to the guards
I washed my face, combed my hair, and played my last trump card
Sitting on the grass watching the last shards of light, I was glad I didn't die
I came to realize that I was now alone, ... "Looks like a good day to fly"
I whispered to a bat as he soared hard and fast against the sky,
"Looks like a good night to fly," and then I began to cry !
Thoughts swell in my mind like a puddle on a rainy day
as droplets of ripples expanding the puddle's display.
Clouds in the sky clapping away the applause can be heard for miles.
The light of the sky grasping the land like a parents hand to a child's.
Then in an instant the shadow consumes the light shadowing both far and near,
so brilliant in an instant as seen in lighting before it disappears.
The puddle remains growing from the raindrops still falling through out the night
like the brain performing cerebral function to manifest thoughts to sight.
Thoughts to the mind like raindrops to a puddle distorts reflections meant to be seen
as the brilliance of the night, the puddles remembers as inspiration for the mind to
dream.
The claps of thunder has ceased, the rain does not stop but lessens
as the sun creeps to the horizon the dawn the puddle beckons.
The rain has halted as morning inches closer the aroma of dew is pungent in the air
the puddle remains still unshaken in the dawn glowing from the sun's glare.
As a bride on her wedding day awaiting the moment she stands before her groom
the puddle has waited throughout the rainy night admiring the sun from the moon.
Like a princess to a mask her glance reveals the fairest complexion
as the sun smiles down upon the land through the puddle of his own reflection.
The hymns bend backward, curved by mass,
Where light itself cannot surpass.
No chapel stands, no bell is rung,
Just gravity’s unending tongue.
The scriptures float, unpinned by law,
Their ink consumed in cosmic jaws.
A preacher prays, but time distorts—
His voice is trapped in falling thoughts.
What god survives such dark collapse?
What faith can cross event’s last lapse?
The soul’s equation must be clear:
No heaven lies beyond this sphere.
Yet still, within that silent maw,
A question stirs the minds in awe:
Does meaning stretch where matter ends,
Or fall, like light, as space-time bends?
And is belief the last to die,
Or just the urge to ask—and try?
Seconds to go.
I am locked away, set aside.
Throat opens, body twists.
Face distorts, voice roughens.
The tangle man wakes up.
He is twelve, seventy, eighty.
Sick and lame.
Trembling and tight.
Blank eyes peruse him.
There will be tears, mania and lacerations.
There will be trauma, suffering and death.
Shall we begin?
Spit and panic catapult malignant declarations over open hearts and minds.
The targets are welcoming, knowing, bored.
Stinging verbal percussion slaps bloody daydreams into existence, leaving mental brandings smoking like cigarette burns.
Temples of his stories assemble and collapse from tongue to word as Gods and puppets arise through pages, letters and memory.
With a heaving gag he births a scene onto the stage and watches as it bites through its umbilicus and begins to suckle at the congregation’s teat.
The milk is thick and spoiled but the narrative reflection is a ragged lesion that will weep for days, maybe even weeks.
Their number is too small for hushed, safe exits so they remain trapped and immobilized as putrid projectiles shower them in the malady of his tale.
They are beginning to see what isn’t there and to hear what wasn’t said while he screams, giggles and grunts through his stained euphoria.
I don’t want it, I don’t like it, I can’t take it, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it makes me sick, it’s too dark, It’s too wordy, it’s not funny.
Are you all right?
Are you all right?
What’s wrong with you?
At last he is tightly swathed in the translucent skin of their propriety.
He can now anchor his tale and draw nutrients from their discomfort.
His parasitic imaginings have found a host and his triumph is now germinating in his own humiliation.
It’s not fair; all we wanted was a nice night out.
What’s so wrong with that?