Long Double edged Poems
Long Double edged Poems. Below are the most popular long Double edged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Double edged poems by poem length and keyword.
Metamorphosis: a word for butterflies,
Said the science textbook in school,
Positive transformations connoted her young soul.
Age brought in a new realisation,
Life, a one-way road with two destinies,
The darker one a metamorphosis too.
The endlessly bleak days,
Dwindling success,
Slipping confidence,
Broken dreams,
The road to change now a narrow old bridge,
Fragile and frail to support her lofty dreams,
Permanency etched in this new route,
Metamorphosis it was; not a passing phase.
Yet, butterflies her eyes chose to see,
Bright pupils midst tear streaked face,
Light shone on the narrow bridge,
Carefully she lugged her weight.
The caterpillar crawled, awkward and slow,
The bridge creaked, threatening to break,
Yet held on to this struggle everyday,
Patiently trudging to the light ahead.
Metamorphosis, still a double-edged sword,
All her struggles could tip her either way,
Yet, she chose the route with pain,
Trying to metaphorse yet again.
She knew it was a story of win or die,
A second dark metamorphosis she wouldn't survive,
Yet this turnaround she chose,
To gloomy life, she refused to bend.
Cocoon she became, the saddest soul alive,
Tears became her appetite,
Broken she was in a thousand pieces,
Her delicate spirit a ruined mess.
The pain made her numb and weak,
Shallow breaths and fiery cheeks,
She closed her eyes, her bright pupils gleaming,
She felt her soul float, she felt existence cease.
But, most of all she felt her eyes open,
Her lips curved a natural smile.
Wings she bore as beautiful and delicate as her spirit,
Her body she felt, weightless and symmetric,
Effortlessly, she flew upwards,
Gliding through the wind, peaceful and sound.
Embodiment she now was, of beauty and success and all things gold.
Bleak fluorescent rooms a thing of the past,
The bridge her metamorphosis, the pain her badge of honour,
She knew it was her destiny, sweet success and enchanting beauty,
She wasn't made for this toil and grub.
Yet, that was her life, the struggles and the pain.
She was now, an angelic dream,
A lover's ballad, a sailor's home.
She was a child's wish, a fairy tale,
A land of exotic fruits, a colourful maze.
She was a drug, an elixir of life,
An ecstatic dream, a virgin queen.
She exists as immortal bliss,
Her scent seaming all earthly souls.
“Get lost, I don’t care,” snarled the young wolf disingenuously
The naïve stripling wanted little more than acclaim
With no knowledge of why it continued--
The
slow
pulsing
of his
ruby
vitality
into the
wounds of others
Which he mistook for his own
One day kind fate bestowed a gift like none else:
A life full to overflowing
With loving family and meaningful work
There was not one single extra quantum of energy
Work all day, family all evening, sometimes work all night
It all suffered from itself in a lovely, mediocre sort of way
But mostly it clarified
An argument, a stressful day, a worry had a price:
Family time, sleep, energy always the losers
Zero sum, one in, one out, unavoidable
The luxury of care was
dead.
So when rumors flew pell-mell, as they do
Like the Wicked Witch’s monkeys
I let them, not pyrrhically hunting them
To their nattering source
And out went the sheep in sheepdogs’ clothing,
Tissue paper acquaintances by the dozens,
Card house construct of popularity
and most of all, irrelevant obligations
If you care so little as to be swayed by the winds of rumor
Then that’s how much investment I have in you.
Bye.
I’m ironclad when impeccably intact in my integrity
Vulnerable only when I drop below my own equator
To the muck-slinging hyenas that beset us all
For when I am true to me, any harsh judgment of me
Reflects only on the one doing the judging,
as I am FREE
This is not to say that I own no bathroom freshener
--To keep the boat afloat, one must diligently look for leaks--
But the double-edged steel of the naked truth
Is the
only defense
And the best nutrient for the garden within
For then and only then am I right with myself and God,
And free as can be expected
from the cares of this world
6/9/16
© By Author
For Contest: Rise above it
Sponsor: Becca Teagan
Peter Pan? He is nothing but a tale drawn out,
a hero of half-truths, drowned in fairy dust,
the dullest side of a double-edged sword.
Before my time lost its salt,
before the boards of this ship were
chapped, split with oceans breath,
before my features grew distinct with age,
a treasure map, carved and creased,
I found myself in Neverland,
as the first dear friend of Peter Pan.
His mind, repressed by the adventures of youth,
has forgotten how young I once was.
Even wiser pirates such as myself
must work to picture a single moment.
Its the sea that causes it,
as time curls and crashes like waves
against toothy rocks,
small histories are bound to vanish.
Yet, in my steely snare, just one memory remains:
When Peter called me James.
The roads we drew in play led us to water,
and how empty we found it!
A voyage was our grandest idea.
In agreement we labored,
drew up clean sails, lacquered lumber.
Christened with a sailors poison,
the Jolly Roger in its finest form!
We followed the arms and legs of rivers,
watching as they became larger bodies,
waters unconquered, unkinged.
My calloused hand brushed the helm,
Peter drew his sword,
mortally pressing its edge to my throat.
You or me, James, he said,
to be a captain or a codfish!
With a smug grin he pounced,
cleaving the air with great circles,
the sharp clanging of metal rang in the mist like bells.
My brow so pinched in focus, first wrinkles formed,
til at last, my blade struck his side.
Peter fell, outdone.
Your cockiness has left you bleeding.
With my hand held out,
his eyes grew bright and bursting like broken stars.
With a smile wild and white, he let out a powerful crow:
Aye, but I’m a clever doodle-doo!
Another crow, he dove at the hand that bested him.
A pain, a demon, a hell!
Honest blood from my moral flesh.
A black pain shook my blackening soul,
As I watched a crocodile feast on the gift
God had meant for my own purposes.
Peter crowed once more.
I watched as he flew on,
his blood dripping into my ocean,
my kingdom!
May this Jolly Roger forever tread
upon the waves of a crowing cowards blood.
I accept the role of villain,
the rival of the wondrous, flying boy,
but may you never forget who won the sea,
and who it is the codfish, be.
The only woman I ever loved gives joy and love, For I have met and loved other women but not with such satisfaction I feel now. For she turns a dark day bright and shares a smile that brings life to a withering rose, if only her parents knew they would have called her Rose because she is my Rose of Sharon. Give me love my angel for today we joined in one, let us rejoice in our love and strengthen our bond in marriage.
Days, weeks, months pass and my love is still strong and sharper than any double edged sword. We on the second year now, why the sudden change. Our usual routines fade with the honeymoon phase, no more cuddling its now frequent quarreling. Is marriage like this? Love fades now its reality; she comes late at night and leaves early in the morning. The home once full of love now lays with sorrows.Donot know who to blame but myself for I ran before I could walk and landed before I could fall and now everything is vivid we jumped into marriage leaving us livid.
Everything changes I do not feel at home anymore, because home is where the heart is and for now my heart is wondering. I start feeling at home at pubs, for it is there where I drown my sorrows. Nightfall becomes my joy for I know the bar calls and sorrows are drowned. I now long for body warmth for in bed we now like Siamese twins joined by our backs.
Usual routine at the bar two three beers a woman approaches, she speaks with persuasion, have I found love at the bar or is it the alcohol taking its course? She whispers in my ear all through the night. She then leads me away like a bull led for slaughter.
Morning and everything is bleak but I feel body warmth, had I partaken in the act of love with the mystifying woman. Suddenly she awakes; she smiles and demands she be reward for her participation in the act. It then hits me, is she the thorny rose that wilts other roses, the lady of the night that brings gloom. I glance around the room; nothing strikes me as a condom. Does that mean I partook in the act of love with the lady of the night without protection?
Has my marriage lead me to death, It seems death is now soon to be my destiny. For I know with the ladies of the night comes the devil's advocate.
And now that the curse of my marriage
She was one of the reasons I lived and now she is the only reason I'm dying...
Form:
DO YOU KNOW GOD?
Do you know God?
Do you really know God?
Do you know the Light
That shines brighter than the sun?
Do you know the voice of many waters
Or the eyes of fiery fire?
Have you seen the lightning
The voices of worship and thunder?
Did you see the seven lamps;
All, the seven-fold Spirit of God?
Did you notice the twenty four elders,
With gold crowns on their heads,
Sitting on twenty four thrones round
The throne of Love?
Hark, the worship of the four living beasts
Saying ‘Holy, holy is the Lord
God Almighty, who was
Is and is to come’
See the worship of the twenty four
Falling down and casting crowns
All praising the worthy Lamb of God.
See the Lamb that sits on the throne
As of jasper and carnelian
See the emerald rainbow round the throne
See the crystal clear sea of glass
Beneath the worthy feet of the Lamb
Watch as the double edged sword comes from His mouth
See the glory of the Word.
See the Lamb in form of flesh
See the Lamb tempted by men
See this Lamb scorned and rejected
By the cursed, condemned and doomed.
See God’s Lamb scourged to the bone
See His flesh stick to the whips
See the mockery of the crown of thorns
See the pain and the Blood He dripped
See Him carrying a tree in this condition
See Him fall; vulnerable to pain.
Oh God’s Lamb left at man’s mercy
See Him stripped of every cloth
See Him nailed through to the Cross
See Him hanging naked on the Cross
See men spit and scoff at Him
See God’s Lamb in need of water
See Him given vinegar with a sponge.
See the Father turn away from His begotten
See the Son cry, more helpless than a babe
See God fall into the hands of death
See His body wrapped like the corpse of man
See God laid in the tomb of a man
Dead for three days and alive on the third day.
What’s the union between these two
The King on the throne and a dead man in a tomb?
What’s the closeness between these two
The glory of Heaven and the darkness of hell?
But the King who sits on the throne
Became the dead man in the tomb
And the eternal King of glory
Went to the very depths of hell
Not on a tour or show off
But an expression of His eternal love for us.
So again I ask; do you know God?
Do you really know Love?
Do you know the Love
That shines brighter than the sun?
Do you know the Man of many wonders
Or the Lamb that died on the Cross?
Vladimir Putin itching
to loose nuclear bomb
end of the world scenario ofttimes
iterated throughout history
though an atheist (actually Unitarian),
no doubt this, that or another psalm
countless times the Bible
references Armageddon and doomsday
impossible mission to remain
cool, collected and calm.
Whether affiliated with donkey or elephant
Democrat or Republican viz
blue war red respectively
political hot issues don't amount
to a (Sam) hill of beans
when Sword of Damocles count
approaches zero hour
as global tensions mount
signaling increased chance
trigger finger will free
avast nuclear winter
(across world wide web) re:
leasing plethora, pyrocumulus
mushroom clouds tree
mend us planetary explosions
annihilating webbed wide
world, an irrevocable
indeed earthlinked debacle
spelling widespread species
multitudinous extinction
ex post de facto after super
bowling powers (wannabe) vied
to wrest empowerment spanning
entire realm sans third rock
from the father, sun and holy ghost,
who turned substantial pock
kits of flora and fauna
once populating oblate spheroid ad hoc
significant swaths of life forms
pulverized and/or turned to ash
transformed into radioactive wasteland
after war mongers brash
lee usurped hegemony
(ruling inhabitants
of Gaia with an iron fist
with a smidgen of flavoring
courtesy of Missus Dash
superfluous taste enhancer,
when sibling burnt offering views
between Venus and Mars incendiary
tolled mourning news
smithereens sole remnant
poisoned every square inch
from weapon of mass destruction
that did cruise
engendering thick noxious fog
disabling fox but not cockroach
while smoldering seas and continents
skull and crossbones didst poach
amidst the gasified, liquified, pureed
where holographic ghoulish super bowl coach
rendering lifelessness home for menagerie
where virtue trounced vice as organisms
(particularly one primate) didst try
(predominant 21st century simians)
tool heave with amity, comity, and empathy
animals and plants an experiment
that went awry
presaging a nuclear winter with nary a winner
implicating mankind as the absolute sinner
instantaneously after Doomsday Clock
signaled point of no return
where grim reaper the sole grinner.
Descendent of proto humans
dumbfounded, mystified, stupefied, et cetera
despite plethora of technological trappings,
whereby world wide web virtually linkedin
allowing, enabling, and providing
instantaneous electronic feedback,
I still experience dearth
of mental, psychological and social
meaningfulness amidst cerebral chaos
courtesy healthy mailer daemons
occupying sixty plus shades of gray matter
more valuable then any terrain
designated as Silicon Valley or Wall Street
constituting nexus of brain power,
where metaphysical thoughts proliferate
and ponder such basic thought
such as who art yours truly
what (I declare)
will constitute date with death
and where will corporeal flesh
and spirit separately journey?
Since time immemorial
millennium generations
happenstance bestowed *****sapiens
ability to become self aware
double edged figurative sword
allowing, enabling, providing...
forebears of yesteryear
to marvel at life, and
reckon with death,
which mixed blessing
wrestling with living and dying
also confronts man/womankind
during twenty first century
said inscrutable dilemma,
albeit reconciling mortality
linkedin with consciousness
heightened, tested, under_scored...
particularly at demise dearly departed
inadvertently affect
upon surviving family members
hijacking, offsetting, upending...
fracturing emotional composure
prompting immediate questions
regarding purposefulness living
nee, being born essentially to die
predestined to pass away
identical fate decreed upon
all animals and plants
bolstered by believing deity
foreordained every creature
past, present, and future,
yet most pronounceable afflicting
non denominational, non
religious, non sectarian
case in point Unitarian,
vis a vis visa versa secular humanists,
especially nonsensical poet wannabe
riddled with perplexity
about nature of being alive
wondering what explains
essence constituting individual fluke
finding meaning scuttling
across world wide web
hither and yon, to and fro
dumbfounded at futility
absolute zero adequate answers
(again, unless one subscribes
to codified doctrinal dogma
i.e. religion, faith, creed...)
I attest as garden variety primate
baffled, flummoxed, nonplussed...
Fantasy sold on a 50’s bottle cap;
a party-girl side-saddle sits
on a double-edged crescent moon
up high —a silver scythe in glamour-night-sky
corners of her cherry mouth tilted up
her left hand raises her glass a toast to the stars
frothy head of champagne-beer flirts
with lips spooning the rim
right hand holds the bottle instead of reality
look! no hands on a razor’s edge
precarious hilarious
a redhead with bouncy-curls and a flouncy-skirt
boot-heels over head when she laughs and Oops! falls
clouds catch her without friction and pillow her fiction head ~
but you with wild escapade eyes fell hard
fell
hard
far beyond Earth with not a soft cloud to cushion you
glam-allure just a sexy lore a filthy lure
but once you’ve been star-dusted and angel-dusted
it’s all the same…
vintage Miller bottle cap
a perfect circle like the fattened moon face
leering through broken windows
shards glitter the floor like fallen constellations
your black pearl eyes two muddy puddles
life drained through rows of tiny needle holes
slip-knot above your elbow just tight enough
your pulse beats its fist against the restraint
—pounding —pounding —pounding
impatient to be bled and fed
you and this dragon’s den a dilapidated pair
abandoned and without family
you share the blank stare of broken windows
veins collapsed like crumbled staircases —
empty inside of empathy and dreams..
a junkie’s spot where shooting stars crash
embers in your bloodstream turn to dust
— you cook in a rusted bottle cap by candlelight
candle’s glow your Sun in a dirty universe
with your teeth you pull back on the syringe
this house unused by the living a cold corpse
but in the warm rush of your skin’s flush
your gaunt gray body melts like hot wax
pale horsehair walls a slouchy silent witness
... your soul escapes as it scrapes across the floor
flurries sneak through broken windows
whirl of wind whistles on its rounds like a jailhouse guard
rattling beam-bones jangling ghost-bones —
user-litter kicked around like a pile of old brown leaves
burnt fingertips and a junky "High Life" bottle cap
all you have left
To create art is to dance with the unseen and the ethereal,
A mystical journey, an enigma even to its creators.
Poets feel this deeply,
A difference they can't yet define, an unspoken aura.
Within them, emotions boil in a vast cauldron,
Every wound they bear, every fleeting joy, becomes magnified,
Everything brings pain. Everything.
They traverse this world as vessels of fragility,
Supersensitive souls drifting in a realm of the mundane.
The mundane dissolves before their enchanted gaze,
They see spectral realities, hear whispers in the celestial silence.
Others move forward, but they linger in the liminal,
Held by the gravity of visions unseen by ordinary eyes.
Their hearts are stormy seas,
Emotional whirlwinds that others cannot understand.
It isolates, ensnares, encasing them in solitary luminescence,
Yet this brilliance often feels too heavy for their delicate forms.
The raw beauty they perceive, untouched by mundanity,
Is both a shining gift and a crushing burden,
This hypersensitivity is the key to the divine,
But it can also be a curse that imprisons the soul.
In their veins flows the luminous river of inspiration,
Yet it cleaves through their existence, a double-edged knife, blessing and peril.
Seeing through this transcendent lens touches the divine essence,
But feeling every nuance can shake the spirit.
They balance on the edge of ethereal creation,
Where the abyss of despair lurks, waiting.
For some, this edge becomes an eternal battlefield,
An uninterrupted struggle to withstand the storm.
And yet, in this hypersensitivity lies the seed of magic,
A spark that can ignite shadows into radiant light,
Illuminating the darkness, bringing forth
Art that speaks to the essence of human existence.
At the heart of the artist, a sacred flame flickers,
With each creation, an echo of their soul is released,
A shard of their infinite light, bestowed upon the world,
Yearning to be felt, to be embraced.
They are both cursed and blessed,
Guardians of a fragile, boundless beauty,
Striving to navigate a world where everything hurts,
And yet, they endure, for in their pain and perception,
Lies the extraordinary magic that makes them sublime.
Her parents, distant as ever, don’t notice. They’re caught up in their own lives, their own struggles, their own disconnection. They don’t ask about her health anymore; they don’t wonder if she’s okay. If she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t think they ever really did. They didn’t know how to love her in the way she needed, in the way that would make the broken pieces inside her fit together. They didn’t know how to love themselves either. Perhaps that’s why they were never able to teach her. They were just as lost as she.
She tries to reach out sometimes, but it always feels like a waste of breath, like speaking to a wall that doesn’t even acknowledge her voice. She craves connection, craves understanding, but every time she opens up, she feels the distance between her and everyone else widen. Her trust is a fragile thing, splintered into pieces so small that it’s hard to see the whole picture anymore. She wants to trust, wants to believe that someone will catch her when she falls, but the ground beneath her feet always feels too shaky, too unpredictable.
So she keeps going, keeps pretending, keeps hiding the things she can’t say. She doesn’t know how to fix what’s wrong with her, and maybe that’s the scariest part. She doesn’t know if there’s a way back from this place of emptiness, this place of constant searching for something that feels like home. But maybe she’s not supposed to have the answers right now. She’s not supposed to know what’s next. The only thing she can do is survive. She survives because what else can she do? Each day feels like a fight to keep her head above the water, but somehow, she manages. It’s not graceful, it’s not pretty, but it’s enough. That’s all she can ask for, just enough to make it to tomorrow. The thought of tomorrow, though, is a double-edged sword. Some days, the future feels like an endless vacuum, stretching on forever, full of nothing but the same pain, the same loneliness. Other days, it’s a faint flicker of expectancy, the idea that maybe things could change, maybe she could find a way to feel whole again. The days don’t stay the same for long. The flicker fades, and she’s left in the dark again.