Long Drowning Poems
Long Drowning Poems. Below are the most popular long Drowning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drowning poems by poem length and keyword.
waterfall from skies compete with my thoughts
must be doing something else,
yet here I am,
Here. I am.
Again.
Why do I keep coming back here?!?
A mental shake,
as I chastise myself
I shouldn't be here, don't belong here anymore.
Most likely, I never did, just pushed myself in this place.
But I feel like a homing pigeon,
where this is the only place I know
that I can be and not be.
Where I can hide and expose myself at the same time.
With repercussions? Maybe.
I sit in my own corner and immerse myself
in the chatter, the laughter, and other matters
Nobody really notices me,
but that's ok.
I'm getting used to it.
I guess I keep coming back here
for that sense of familiarity, of a somewhat home,
for the memories.
Of myself in happier times,
of a chapter in my life that I have written
yet somehow botched up. Badly, so badly
that the words are all swimming in their own tears
Oozing ink, drowning.
But it shouldn't surprise me anymore?
This is me?
Of course I will always somehow manage to mess things up.
Some ways more than the others,
'my-esque' askewness
For some, that chapter in my life
is of course negligible. An erasable footnote perhaps?
It hurts, but we all have our own worlds,
where you may not be as important to others
as you thought, as you wanted to be.
There I went, pushing myself again,
only to be pushed away with a
thousand mile barrier of silence.
All along, being dust in that corner.
I gulp a bucket of tears,
because I will not deny it--
how much it hurts. Still.
But like what I say,
have to get used to it.
My hands are cold,
and I wipe snot from my nose,
a dainty trickle of snot, but snot nonetheless,
have had my snot-in-sheets phase,
so this is progress, that trickle.
1234, my clock says,
12345678910, I count to myself
collecting, breathing slowly
needles in my feet and shivering
Gosh, can I get any more pathetic?!
Yes, I have and I bet I will still be so.
No, this is not a pity-me thing,
more like a slap-myself thing
So I can look back, read this
and say to myself:
Others have it harder than you,
yet they stand,
I'm here sitting,
yet others stand.
...
the sky is still drumming the earth with water
and my eyes are threatening to do a duet. Again.
I chide myself, Enough now.
For my bags under my eyes are already so smooth, too deep
Too weathered and soaked for a year.
----> 'slap-myself thing', remember??
Remember.
My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons.
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long.
Me and my classmates wore
hand-me-down smiles.
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English.
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders?
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.
I heard them say,
that life is full of promises.
I hear them pray,
that God makes a way us to excel.
I have a dream,
and each morning I wake up just to give it a chase.
I aim high,
higher than where the moon and stars are placed.
I give it a try,
and the universe gives me a peak of what I can have.
It's within reach,
If I stretch further I can have a touch.
Its all there,
my heart and soul knows this and we take control.
The control of life,
steering with keen towards our goal.
I see the light,
Its shinning brighter for my eyes feel with glee.
...then it all comes crushing down....
I blink a bit and it comes crushing...
down, am left lying in darkness...
It was all there, now nowhere...
shuttered...
am drowning...
How could it disappear I ask,
How can it seem so near,
yet so far I cannot bear,
the thought of losing it before getting there...
How could it lead me so closer,
yet the moment I near it vanishes in thin air...
how could it...
Painful it is to bear,
the thought of being down brings fear,
my mind wanders in confusion as I strive for a better,
feeling than this causing my heart to drown like it's tied to an anchor.
I must wake,
I must rise from this wreck,
I must gather the only strength I have left to try and break,
I must take heart and rise above all fear and torture that evil can make.
and so I rise,
in hope I find the means,
to stand on two feet,
again to keep my goal alive.
In hope I steer dust off the dirt,
I take up the sword and hold it closer to my heart,
arising from the ashes and again seeking to fly,
my focus now clearer and my breathe now deeper,
I know I can do it and all it takes is the inner,
spirit to excel above all that tries to hinder,
me from achieving what I have been so eager,
to find and make my whole life better.
In hope I fly,
In hope I try,
In hope I strive,
In hope all I seek I shall find.
..and so I go,
head held high and full of hope,
heart pumping harder and mind set on my goal,
I know,
that failing doesn't mean the end of the road,
I know,
that the journey of life is full of such falls,
I know,
that the bad sometimes comes our way just to make us strong,
I know,
that the only way I can get there is by filling my heart with eternal hope.
I know...
that in hope,
all,
is never,
lost.
Dylan Carston was a well-off young man,
thanks to a large and health trust fund,
his father was a true Wall Street ace
and had been quite generous to his sons.
Dylan had set himself up in Miami
after years spent getting his MBA,
he did consulting four days every week,
the other three he did like to play.
He’d partied with friends at all the bars,
and had his share of hot one-night stands,
not yet had he thought of a wife and kids,
he was enjoying the life of a young man.
One Saturday as he walked down the beach
to get exercise and breath the sea air,
he stumbled upon a frantic woman
calling for him to go over there.
As he drew near he saw down in the sand
a young woman who’s face had gone blue,
he could see no lifeguard near where they were,
but fortunately he knew what to do.
He found no pulse when he listened close,
and placed two hands high on her left breast,
with hard compression he began CPR,
pumping furiously at her chest.
Every so often he placed his mouth on hers
and forced oxygen deep into her lungs,
the other woman ran off to find more help
while Dylan continued the rhythmic pump.
Finally after three desperate minutes
a gurgled rasp echoed up from her throat,
life returned to her, the blue fading out,
though her eyes still knew not where to go.
Moments later he heard the rush of feat,
the lifeguard and the woman had returned,
Dylan gestured to where the girl lay,
“I brought her back, now I think it’s your turn.”
The lifeguard thanked him for taking action,
then knelt down slowly at the victim’s side,
ambulances came, reports were fill out,
when Dylan left three hours had gone by.
He felt good about saving the woman’s life,
it was a moment he would not forget,
congratulations came in, on top of that
the lifeguards sent him a certificate.
Three weeks went by and Dylan returned to
the safe routines of the everyday world,
and bit by bit his thoughts turned away
from the near death of that helpless girl.
So it was with a great deal of surprise
when a process server told him these words:
“Dylan Carston, you’re being sued for assault,
you can consider yourself dully served.”
Dylan’s mind whirled at the accusation,
he had no idea how this could be true?
Had some ex regretted their time and cried ‘rape,’
were they evil enough to go down that route?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Somehow it's like you don't exist
The stars above are missing you
You've been away for oh so long
And I'm drowning in your absence,
Just like drowning in quicksand
I can only stop the struggle
To avoid the complication
You're gone, away
You can't believe
How the fire you lit so long ago
In my soul
In my heart
Can eat me up when you're not around
We're planets apart;
So close, yet so far
And when you're roaming another world
Carefree and smiling
Unaware of the turmoil
Your absence causes
Here I lay, drowning in your memory
No-one to keep me company
But myself
So I sit, and think… and just exist
And the magic you have on me starts to fade
The beauty and meaning which you brought
To my life
Seem to die away
Into pictures of Utopia
Abstract euphoria
They fade into the charred night sky
Weighing heavy on my heart tonight
Like a coal ocean breeze,
Or a cave painting, of what used to be
And I start to remind myself… of myself
I see my ugliness, stripped naked
Staring into the mirror
No longer saved, rescued, hidden, covered
By your beauty…
My pity, my shame… my agony
Bare, unclothed
No longer lifted by your confidence,
Your pride, your pleasure
My blasphemies, lies, my defiled soul
No longer sanctified with the purity, the faith,
The truth you plunge me into
This is my ugly truth
- - -
I am myself now
My old, pitiful self
I'm the monster I was running away from
Before I crashed so hard… into your arms
But it was the best crash
Fate steered me into
My hero
My savior…
Now, with no shelter
I am a pit
Of everything I used to be
There's no running away
No angel to fly me skywards
To lift me and drown me into the sun
To save me
I'm left to sink in a muted sea
The sea of tears I cry for you
I cry when I miss you…
I never thought I would
And before I run out of air,
I just want you to know…
You brought the meaning to my life
You colored all the black and white
Without you I'd be a careless soul
You are the one who made me whole
You saved me from me
From the killer that I was
And if I could sing, to you, my final words
I'd say this…
You taught me the art of human passion
You taught me to love myself so deeply
And then, I'd be able to love someone else
You taught me to smile when I wanna cry
That there are no limits—
Not even the sky
Thank you
I miss you
I love you…
please lemme know and honestly profess
if profusion of words create a lingual Loch Ness
(when hens canst come home to roost
especially, encountering
the following conglomeration
in matthew scott harris patois).
He readily admits writing inventive
attempts usually ten tubby a literary mess,
thus finding innocent cyber cruisers
Angle fishing for Saxony fundamental fluidity
courtesy of Freudian stream of consciousness,
gabbling gibberish, muck not done on purpose
and certainly less
to impress.
Gnome hatter intent toward
cogency, fancy ingenuity,
levity, the inevitable
resultant wrought gobbledygook
fascination for Lingua Franca
feeble endeavor splutters, splinters,
and splatters Asia Yukon guess.
Paramour status analogous with twenty six letters,
sans En gull Lush Mother tongue confluence
finds me submerged (as an Arctic Monkey)
swimmingly enervated
via erotic laced sentiments
perhaps finds bravely daring soul madly
hollering, gesticulating floundering,
(in close proximity to Davey Jones's locker)
to avoid drowning at sea
perchance comprehending passionate influence.
Upon espying a signature poem of mine
forces one pre ponder ring lurking predilection
tib hush anonymous re:
dears (dares) adventuresome mettle
taking him/her to the brainy
(briny) deep brink
Icon fess
this (NON FAKE) pretense, why
aye metaphorically express
(via medium of ordinary Anglophile
alphabetic wanton soup,
or figurative egg drop bub
bling broth (el) doth brew)
pronouns Sibyl affectation
affliction sans plethora,
where each ladle full adrip with
richly flavor Verdana Font lee
and sincerely textured vocabulary.
Pluperfect mortals beings undoubtedly feel
(blindsided, how this hunger stricken author
suffers said sesquipedalian syndrome
particularly expectorating flashy
hoping tum bark on successful literary quest)
hyper aware aspiring paperback writers wannabe
might stoop to conquer, cheat, cadge
vis a vis plagiarize plethora
amidst storied plentiful English droppings.
Rather than succumb pretense feigning paucity
temptation to bask exultantly,
professed glorious unrequited love
announcing required sworn vow,
(el lye ding) avowed consonant covenant.
Form:
I try to fight them, those cruel clawing cold hands
that drag me from the pit, clawing, twisting, crushing me.
I must find you! I need to hold you, to be held by you!
So I fight, desperately, to break free, to find you.
I try to fight them, even as the feel of the ropes upon my arms
burning ever deeper, into my skin
. I fight desperately, as the leather collar bites into my throat,
and my breath leaves me. I try to fight, savagely, desperately, to break free.
Knowing I can never escape, that I will fail,
and knowing full well, what fate awaits us both.
I know not where they have taken you, but I can still feel you,
can still hear your voice, as it softly speaks of love.
, It is how I know you are still alive,
and that knowledge gives me strength to fight on desperately.
My body is ravaged, torn, the horrors those cruel hands have dealt, have broken my very soul,
yet I try, desperately to fight. I long for release into the void,
yet I can still feel you, still hear your voice, still know your love.
I know not, where they will take me, until the wagon comes to a stop.
Then, for the first time in almost 16 days, your eyes are the first thing I see.
You are alive, and when your eyes finally find mine, you look with such love, at me.
So again, I fight! I fight so desperately, but those, horrible cruel hands,
tighten their vicious grip, once more.
I reach for you, needing your touch, sobbing your name.
The pain, almost forgotten, gone, almost instantly. I struggle, oh, how I fight!
And so, I didn’t see. I didn’t see the first of the blows, that spilled crimson onto the snow,
at my feet. I screamed for you. I screamed your name desperately
as I watched blow after blow rip your body to pieces, in front of me. Your blood turning the snow to slush, scarlet staining my feet. I watched your soul flee as I screamed for you,
as the fight poured out of me. I watched, as they defiled you.
I watched as they ripped your body apart. I felt your soul leave mine.
I watched, as the light of the sunrise left your eyes.
My soul broken, my body savaged, I crumbled to ashes, there in the snow, at your side.
The numbness that overtook me, did nothing to save me, that day. I can still taste your blood.
Goddess above, I still taste your blood! No, More!
No longer, will I bear this well of horror, and tears!
Goddess, help me! I am drowning in it!
Cruelest thoughts overwhelm
beyond the patrol
beyond the drowning sunlight
firelight creeping up my back,
grab your camera and attack
a moment that doesn't hear
the glowing blue
I should have kept in a faerie jar
ajar is my mind,
hinges broken, hinges built
100 years ago, the repairman's dead
like the postcard I still cherish
oh it has arrived uninvited again, this pain
this favorite feeling flowers
when the spoken dagger
lathered
in poisonous affection
takes the habitual plunge
into pulsing core, and oh
she cannot feel the swirling madness fought
no, that is the worst of it all, she knows not of this
chest clutched, scream schooner, a whirlwind
through every room
each white convulsing
red cherries in time
after Euphrates dries
and Hyde's head screws back on.
I am fine. Everything smiles.
Oozing cryptically, cryptic cryptic don't let them know
that beyond a year ago,
Into slow void, I challenge Time,
I challenge
the non-existent;
I challenge
myself,
and discover...
Don't go back to the fireless rooms?
The fireless rooms
were never places.
The fireless rooms
were never avoidable.
Forlorn freedoms flung farthest
feasting from fear-falling
feint faithfully; fictitiously.
In a lone, innocent desire, the perfect jazz song is playing
it is her favorite song
her unavoidable song on every playlist
as a hallow briar floats by,
knows why
and where
and who I truly am,
knows the buried youth,
and the noxious adult of hap.
I am swinging again. He is swinging again.
That youth,
that whippersnapper.
That fool.
Going too fast. Too fast for his Truth to catch up.
Agony! Laugh at me!
Dig those heals in, heels into the ground, digging
into that old world
of a hosted carnival
that kept the best parts of our personalities. Kept the parts
everyone loved the most
at the top of that ferris wheel,
ecstasy eyes embracing the stars
that would later become supernovas inside
black fire death-in-life,
a death of slow pain would be lovely
masochist!
if only I could hold death as a moment,
death it and then command death
sic death upon evil
and witness true happiness
for the entire world.
Death...
and slow will be...
my descent once again...
Inebriation.
To Sleep. To Machination. Avoid the void...
A love for the forbidden fruit.
Was the purpose of your absence an attempt at causing me pain?
That crippling feeling, a spider spinning its web inside my mind.
That arachnid, poisonous, jeers the word space like a handicap.
That parasitic relationship forms a cloud covering the moonlight,
A fog that swirls like a whirlpool in your absence. How rapturous
Your paradox forming a bridge made from our memories. Broken and
Reshaped they become the foundation to a journey in that sea you
Created within me. Your withered emotions and fleeting empathy
were a false proposition of hope only a jester would find funny.
An exhibition of animosity lies in the silent waves – waiting –
for our sunset. How beautiful its rays are against the black water;
falling into the abyss, hidden under that rain your pseudo blanket.
Does the sunrise when you are blind? Does the moon set when
You can’t see the sky? That colorblind man sits there on the beach
Looking in silence. He cannot see his reflection within the water, he
Stands and walks to its surface. There he finds a crow crippled, limping
In the ripples where his reflection should be. That psychedelic feeling
Draws in his drowning breathe, falling into the sea. Paramount to his
Survival the man drowns, his understanding a paradox in his memory.
Only he, the crow, remembers the light of the moon. Its pompous shape,
that transcendent light, a memory to your decay. Only when yellow hits
the eyes of the crow will that white light fade beyond the thunderstorm.
He cries to the heavens, yet his speech murmurs under the weight. That
Black water suffocates his prayer, but he finds comfort in his anonymity. In
the presence of absence the crow longs for loss. He who is stolen from
wishes to be further buried, lost in the waves. That siren sings a fading
melody back into his ears. His own prayer an anchor tied to his feet,
crippled in your memory. Fractured in his own faith, what god heard
his suffering, his murmurs clots of air in a salty sea; black as the blood
from the wound you carved out in his chest. What blessing filled
his misery, that pseudo composition you create is a platter filled
with the feather of the crow. His words held sweet your grace,
an ensemble dancing in the mind of the forgotten. in the sea of
his followers he is Poseidon, yet still the crow sank, anchored in misery.
The same striking man, the same lush, green land,
cushioned and delighted her heart in sleep.
Her romantic dream of senses was most grand
unless repeated fears began their slow, dark creep;
drowning and stabbing frights would often expand.
She would then wake, shaken, and try to understand.
This consistent dream had always just been.
Each night, the familiar reel repeated
with new chapters unfolding now and then.
Six sweet, white roses were never deleted
and repeatedly appeared at her dream’s end -
always pure white of a love intense blend.
She touched the new, glossy travel brochure,
ran her fingers along the pictured tree,
reminding herself that she was quite sure
it was the same tree her sleeping eyes did see.
This tree of certain enchanting allure
is what urged on her travel towards tomorrow's tour.
**********************************************
The guide led her slowly to the charming tree.
Its presence moved her into a faint-type sway.
When her trance-like eyes finally broke free
they took in surrounding nature’s breathtaking array,
and paused at her dream recalled mound of clay
where six, white roses lay in a love intense display.
Visibly shaken, the guide sat her gently down.
Sitting, too, he began sharing an ancient tale.
“Centuries agone, the prince loved a poorly
maiden from town. Family, foes and doctrine bid
this love to fail. They eloped, cloaked by soft darkness
draped all around. He wore armor and his beauty wore
her plain gown.”
“They returned after six love-days of bliss.
Only hours back 'fore his true love vanished.
No sign, no clue, the prince sought all amiss
and threatened the guilty would be banished.
The prince finally found her in the sea’s mist
with stab wounds he would not ever dismiss.”
“He buried his love and also a spell in this clearing.
He left no marker but a white rose for each day
he and his wife had shared perfect, loving, pairing.
So sure his spell would bring her near with love revered,
he vowed to watch over her grave using spell's sway
and to join her within three moons after she appeared."
The guide asked, “how much longer do you plan to stay?”
She glowed, “I must linger at least three moons after today.”