Long Duplicates Poems
Long Duplicates Poems. Below are the most popular long Duplicates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Duplicates poems by poem length and keyword.
I write to you with nothing
I write to you not knowing who I am in you
I write to you with just thoughts, ideas of the ideal man
Dear father I write to you in prayer, with my knees on the floor, in thought and with hands in the air
Father I sing to you
I praise you and see your hand everywhere
Father I write to you with tears and a pain only flesh may bleed to please
Father I see you seeing us from heaven and in wonder that you have left your son in each of our hearts, leaving us wondering how much we mean as your sons on Earth.
Father Oh how great thou art, crafted in living
How much you mean to us.
Dear loving Father.
A father who motivates, greatness in morals and being an example
Dear Father oh how you have molded me in age, vision and in your xyz of principles
Father I watch you in awe
Watching your chess moves of living and being the king of our home.
Tat'omdala indoda which knows to respect and love
A Father I hope to be, how I mean to be you and walk in your enormous shoes
How much you mean to us.
Dear Father who isn't there.
How much I mourn your presence.
Dear Father how could you let me hang in a flag of colourless colour as I motivate to motivate being a man.
Dear Father how much I mean to have seen you hold me and just say four letter.
Dear Father I write to you with my tears and emptiness
In my pain of hoping I may finally have someone I look like, who may correct my wrongs
How much you mean to me.
Dear selfish Father
Oh how I hate you
Dear Father may you be blessed in a terrible sorrow
Father I write to you hoping you'd just say sorry and not return as it is you I scorn
Oh father who abused and hit my mother in days of intoxication
Oh father who never gave me anything, not even a name
Oh how much your actions of pain have removed the manliness in man
How much you mean to me
Dear future fathers.
May money and pride never seem to appetise you
Fathers may you be real men who love their daughters and duplicates enough to mold them into real instruments of a better world
Dear future men, may morals still be applicable to you in spite of all this twerking and foolish deeds
Dear men I write to you for you to love and honour your wives
And to continue growing as I honour how much you mean you to me.
I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.
We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony for the subversion of fertile inferiority,
Which, like rabbits, duplicates and hops about in trouncing contentment.
Yet despite the grin stretched beneath empty eyes,
Which are eclipsed by dilation of cimmerian shades poured from tipped inkwells,
Darkness ripened by age has inflated its penumbral grasp upon the solar plexus.
Hearts beat now to the false circadian rhythm of telemetry.
Screens fueled by waves polluting the air scramble for attention;
Screaming as if the spotlight has slithered away from their thespian heads.
But even so we watch as if waiting for a nothingness we know.
Petulant performances pretending to perfect the perception of reality persevere,
Despite their lack of empirical validity.
Our bodies and the space around they occupy have become irrelevant.
Experience and physical stimulation have been replaced by mirror neurons,
Firing incessantly at the sight of electromagnetic facsimiles,
Which are vomited in projected disproportion into our unwitting faces,
From nauseating mouths of those whose disease has spread to lower echelons.
And so we sit and stare upon the square on walls and in our hands,
As the prefrontal cortex and its dehydrated lobes succumb to the reptilians.
Another era of lack of mind borne from the fruitlessness of parasitic seeds,
Planted by the pretenders who swim in the wealth of our applause.
Clap away, we will, until we collapse in the arthritic solidification of redundant repetition.
Welcome to the show; a televised apocalypse of thought.
Where worlds were once created in cognition,
They're now created in the lenses of cameras.
When worlds were once refracted light coruscating from the eye,
They're now flickered in slides reflected from the television.
Two scales must always be within an approximate range
for an accurate weight, and the close relationship
between the Humankind and God must withstand any change.
Solutions must be found before catastrophe approaches,
and if we were caught by surprise, we would regret the outcome;
less trees should be cut down to make room for buildings.
Thieves, murderers and rapists should be held in contempt
and thrown into dungeons...instead of giving them cosy cells,
the Law admits that's just to punish, but inhumane to torment.
Nightly streets have been taken over by muggers, drug dealers
and prostitutes, now called escorts, haven't changed their lewd attitude;
even madams of the brothels open doors for the well-dressed sirs.
Society has gone mad, and it has condoned both sexes of equal desires;
never was Sodom and Gomorrah as iniquitous and lustful as this one;
God forbid...I entered this city and be found guilty of their perversions!
While on the outskirts, in run-down homes poverty duplicates its horrible woes,
politicians' corrupt hands are not seen...pocketing money that Congress approved;
and the suffering of the poor is plagued by famines that turn into deadly diseases.
Crooked judges are manipulated by criminal defense lawyers who have handfuls of cash;
justice can never be served when criminals are given their parole, and the innocent,
humble men are detained and put behind bars, because of their limited wealth.
Proud hearts see neither simplicity nor beauty in anything that evolves into splendid light;
self-praise, greed, bluntness and invulnerability are the rules they live and swear by;
humbleness is unacceptable and insignificant...it's a virtue which diminishes their pride.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I come not to enlighten you
but in my way destroy;
embellishment of personhood
gives me such little joy.
The dark I bring on wings scarred black
shall blind the morning light;
No trace is left to levitate
humanity from blight.
Tell parasitic paranoids
who need to bleed their hate,
I am the Hydra coiled to wrap
around their garden gate.
I'll feed upon the multitude
your little bastard brood,
to satiate the darkest fate
of my eccentric mood.
This universe in multiples
(beyond redundancy)
where thoughts are bound to mind around
a new complexity.
The time has come to end the end
begun so long ago;
the human race is baseless space;
corruptions putrid flow.
And I have countless duplicates
who rival even me;
lips drip to sip your succulence,
a feast consumed with glee.
If could grasp this world within
the palm of your right hand,
you will not be released or free
to walk this worthless land.
It is a universal vice
I share with you this day:
All life will ebb in ember fires
turned cold and powder gray.
You ask of Poets in my world?
I say they all are ONE,
each moving like a metronome
until their verse is done.
You pass these perfumed days of rest
'neath flowers round your gate;
but wretched stink of old decay
enjoins Mephisto's hate.
I write my rhyme in verse to curse
and tease with soulless ease.
Perhaps I write to steal your fright -
we Hydras love to please.
Now count the words for I shall not
and you will find them true -
I RODE THE ROAD OBLIVION
IN RHYTHM RIDE TO YOU!!
^she_
^she_ had a love/hate relationship with food
she only fed with her eyes,
i was a sparkless firecracker
and spoke English like i hated it.
not the least bit compatible
in any department
at any hour on any menu
she wouldn't even drink the water.
I would slip through the cracks
should she stop staring at me
up and down her beautiful 'it is'
she lit an incense and i was ignited.
i offered up an apple
a yellow delicious manifested
i peeled it for her
but she wouldn't taste it.
i laid eyes on her lips
kissed with dark secrets
an awakening of insects
with equal day and night.
She ate me with her eyes
clear, bright, ripe
it rained on the fruit
and i took a bite.
I spoke to the grain in her ear
i had so much to say
succulent was my speech
She took it all in.
potash, stolen, honey and rye
sup the festal dish don't cry
she had parted the thin line
between a want and it's fill.
I lapsed into that petri-dish
pierced by her green staring
Her warm glassy ogling
all up and down my countenance.
Nourished of palate perception
She relished on her diet.
I indulged as her entrée
feasting her with my gaze.
It would take a while
like a gala supper without wine.
^she_ would have no seconds
no weakness for flavor of the same.
well fed and fed up
she checked me out
her unusual hunger
gave me best regards
No repeats nor duplicates since
such foodstuff is most uncommon
Her daily bread was nurtured
with the edibles of my mind.
The End.
What do you think of when you think of diamonds?
Rare?
Expensive?
Beautiful?
Well, you are all those things to God:
Rare, Expensive, and Beautiful.
You are rare because God makes no duplicates. There will only be one you in all of existence.
You are expensive because all the currency in the world could not save you, only the price of blood. And not just any blood, but the blood of
Jesus Christ.
You are beautiful because you are fearfully and wonderfully made in Gods’ image. He took the time to make you exactly the way He wanted to. When He made you in His image, He made nothing short of a masterpiece.
Things will always come to tarnish your desired self-perception as a radiant, perfectly cut diamond.
An uncontrollable circumstance becomes a hairline crack through your center, spanning from
top to bottom.
That one mistake you keep making scrapes you against the grinding wheel every time you make it, causing dulled deformities in your shape.
Each loved one that turns their back on you is a hammer shot on a solid, flat surface. Each shot breaks you into smaller pieces.
You may feel broken-heck, you may be broken, but a cracked, dulled, deformed and broken diamond is still a radiant and perfectly cut diamond in the eyes of God, with no diminished value at all.
What will it take for you to see yourself as God sees you?
Staircase appears to enable due climb
Transforms smooth as scales of snake
Sordid exposed inhibits intent once kind
Tramples vigour that giving hearts make
Flattened treads disallow firm foothold
Turned vertical, depicts frightening slide
Fresh bread duly duplicates damp mould
Tough crust disguises grimy rot inside
Eden believing eyes view rows of roses
Lenses pink, by strategic cruelty shattered
Frames deform, broken under bulldozer
Petal perspective, machine rigid embattled
Tainted by hatred, then inevitably reflects
Sears from steel eyes to slippery surface
Casting untoward to all unfolding aspects
Vengeance on shoulder deviates purpose
Platter of fruit colour, as slime discarded
Ladder disputed as useful, fire wood axed
Torn down resources, despair is imparted
Narrow funnel filters hope, heavily taxed
3rd November 2020
Written for Contest:
Hello Darkness My Old Friend
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
Within the marrow of the mind
There is a sacred scale.
It weighs the properties of life,
And then constructs a tale.
Between the world and the divine,
Artists measure the worth
Of every image they foresee,
In heaven and on earth.
Some choose to paint the Godly realm,
When spirit tips the scale.
Others prefer to paint the sea,
A sunset and a sail.
An earthly scene is all they see
In their imaginings.
And so the world will tip the scale,
Toward more earthly things.
The Lord is absent from the art,
That duplicates a lake,
He’s not described within the light
That glints on a snowflake.
Some artist’s glorify His grace,
With the gifts they receive.
The scales revealed within the art,
Proclaim what they believe.
A snowflake, in and of itself,
Is nothing more than ice.
Some artists see its earthly charm,
While others won’t look twice.
The scales tip differently for each,
Their values don’t align.
Where every artist’s heart resides,
Is found in each design.
The side to which your muse is drawn,
Is what your scale leans toward.
Some artists only paint the world,
And some paint for the Lord.
WORDS SO SWEET.
Cultivating from this tangerine
Tree
Liquid recipe, her content carry's
Pedigree,
Green shaped leaf is my identity.
What is time without the latitude
Of man's mind?
Am surprised, this ordinary ink
Begins to see things.
Follow me on this trace into
Unlimited might, lighting sign's
Apostles of translucent sight.
Today you read Words So Sweet,
As sentences duplicates into
Centuries
Not speaking of her voluminous
Territory
Basically her harvested energy
Equals particles of spiritual
Clergy.
You my darling so sweet,
I prostrate murmuring indefinite
Blessings,
Never have I pictured you in a
Coffin
Stand by me when am coughing
Become my hobby,
I hear your voice even when you
Say noting.
Accept this infant milk from
A mother to feed her pretty
Daughter at age two,
I mount my back for you
To scale through.
Let Wrinkles never beautify
Your face
Dark and fair will definitely
Read this page.
Poetry was created for you
Never to hate
WORDS SO SWEET is a stage,
To you who love's and see
To the growth of wisdom in
Every adorable medium,
Poetry is my name.
Habib Akewusola.