Long Easier Poems
Long Easier Poems. Below are the most popular long Easier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Easier poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm going out to find God today,
I've lots of time, it's a holiday.
I wonder if He's big and strong,
He wears white... or am I wrong?
I wonder if He's in the wood,
So magical in childhood.
I'll ask my friends if they might know
Where He always likes to go.
Mum says, "He's simply everywhere—
You won't find Him in a comfy chair!"
I'm going to ask friends at school;
I'll start with Ria—she's no fool.
Ria is Hindu, kind and bright.
She smiles and says, "You're looking right.
We call Him Brahman where I pray;
He's all around us every day."
Rizwan is Muslim, calm and kind;
He helps me out when I'm behind.
"It's Allah," he says with a happy grin,
"His love and care reach everything."
I've searched the woods and climbed a hill,
I've stood so very quiet and still.
Then I began to understand—
God's love is shown by helping hands.
When friends are kind and people care,
It's easier to feel He's there.
Perhaps that's where my search should start...
For God is closest in every heart.
Write a Self-Help book
that works only for you.
Become one with the One,
or at least give it a try.
It doesn’t get any easier after you’re dead.
If you have a nasty personal problem
become an advocate for other losers'.
Take up the accordion,
play Polish polkas for your unwanted friends,
soon you will be free of them.
Frequent the offices
of fully untrained masseurs
happy endings almost assured.
Remember, there are no living
un-struggling poets,
so get a job.
There are ups and there are downs,
be sure to decide beforehand
how you want your eggs.
Remember no one else has a clue
where they’re going either.
Dance, dance, dance!
If you cannot,
then sit it out. No one cares.
...Okay, but what about those guys
who claim that they’re ‘being replaced,’
powerful men targeting them,
disparaging them for their race,
claiming the state wants poor peasants
easy to control and to buy,
people they find amendable,
who will not bristle or defy.
People that they can work for cheap,
where current folk would stand and fight,
claiming they want an underclass
that puts less value on their righ—
…wait, what?...taking down border walls…paying to fly them across the country?...we pay for it all?...some states want them to vote?...claiming pale people are ‘oppressors?’…teaching that in colleges...crap.
Yes, but what of the pedo guy
that they say didn’t kill himself,
claiming that he had lots of dirt
on politicians, men of wealth,
that this could be used for blackmail,
the powerful to be controlled,
a network of ruling pedos,
can you believe they that it’s so?
Like any person that damn rich
Would risk it all for some weird sex,
and are so desperate to hide it
they’d slip a rope around a neck.
I’m sorry, but it seems to me
that the elites are much more smart,
not dumb enough to risk it all,
there’s easier ways to get har—
…wait, ligature marks were wrong?...security footage missing…documents with powerful names…over and over….ex-presidents, celebrities, and businessmen?...They still won’t release it?...none of the clients arrested?
Huh…
All right, I’ll bite. Tell me about the aliens…
when i look in to your dark round eyes,
you seem so distant, your persona is now a disguise.
For someone who was once so full of lifes existence.
Now all thats left of you is your remote eerily distance.
Its despairing how much you have changed today.
you are still here in flesh but it feels like your souls passed away.
There will never be an escape from this, it will be here until the end.
Its sad but its true, this is a disease that will never mend.
for a long time you had been quite content, your words where muddled but you always
smiled.
Theres none of that now as you have become even more of a child.
Its disturbing to watch this alzheimer's slowly destroying your mind,
especially for a woman who had a spirit that always shined.
Its easier to be remembered for the person you where before,
but someday this will all be over for you and you won't have to suffer from it anymore.
I can't believe I thought that.
In the shadows of my soul the whispers lingered. It murmured and elegantly sat massaging my last ego in the stool of regrets. My being was lied to, stomped at, shot with words anchored with rays of
acidic venoms.
The truth choked me.
It served anguish on
my haunting mind.
It's hypnotic that I once fancied a strangling viper that vapours the juice from my melted eyes into the mountain of torture.
I stumbled, I swayed to life's thorns of abyss and ensnared by love's cruel crumbs of illusion.
The bruises painted on my canvassed face chuckled at every punch till I lost the willingness to see the glory of the full moon in dark clouds.
My eyes sank into the fire.
My eerie turquoise lips screamed out blue lavas.
I was the sulfur who dared not escape the volcano. Those blows made me regurgitate.
Made me lose my sapling smile.
Orchestrated the loss of myself.
I was thorn from my flesh like onions.
My blood, alarmed in pickled beet hues and I gushed like cano cristales, dangling on the verge of a slit through the wrist.
I didn't want to leave my pumpkins
I didn't want to see them watch me either.
It was selfish to dance with such folly.
To roam in that nightmare of a dream.
It was selfish to leave them suffering the most but my eyes failed me.
My voice joined the chorus
My legs? The soil rejected them.
A breezy glance of creamy smile after
every hit. The devil's only laugh.
How do I make it painless?
No one is saving me from this.
The world would plea I endure
They won't not believe, and neither did I.
Time stood still dancing to my whims.
The wind in pretence, flinched.
The night? It barely covered my shame.
I watched the hessdalen lights take flight without crawling on me.
Do I let his grey kicks
take the last accolades
Or should I grab them
myself, taking the glory?
It's bewildering, I thought that I was loved.
I can't believe I thought that taking my breath would make it easier and filter the pain.
For every dig and storm he imprinted on me,
I forgive myself.
My old scribe said sit and I will tell you a story, a story from long ago. When being a scribe was hard and changing, we carved words onto rocks. We wanted to tell what we knew, just for you to remember always. Times changed and we still wrote, papyrus scrolls become our newest choice. Pen with ink and paper we did love, it makes it easier for us to write our stories. Then came typewriters, oh my what an invention for all of us. The scribes thought we had it made with the typewriters, then came the computer. The computer has truly set me free, free to be the writer that is inside of me.
Date Written: 6/20/2020
the nights were filled with arguments
new jersey had a new prostitute
spring and true love, drunken moments
soon mutable to the crashing of objects
against the walls, the doors
freedom thru defenestration
how was i supposed to read and write
i would bang on the wall
hey, Quasimodo, pax vobiscum, remember
mans sana in copre sano
this is heaven here on earth
try Occam's razor for god's sake
there would be a knock on the door
Quasi had returned my Beethoven's fifth
earphones, boom box
i loved his courtships
he used to walk, talk
and breathe his next conquest
the ones he could convince
to leave the profession
gifts in tow, he would stop by, well
you're irresistible Quasi
she hasn't a chance
need money, a few lines in Spanish
anything for a fellow kamikaze
it was worth the silence
i could hear him above my own roar
my only wish was to teach him
pick on the tourists, they leave
upon his victorious return, the inevitable
he would pull the bed back
far enough from the wall
to get the banging effect he needed
gave her hell didn't i, he would say
and the inevitable always brought the war
month, sometimes more, and they would
have found a new patron of the bottle art
but new jersey took one seriously
doing his life in Mexico
what is it like to love a woman to death
i don't care to know
what a horrible thought
it is much easier waving goodbye to buses
no jail time, no funeral expenses
Playa Hermosa 92 The Patient Stones
let me give you some history of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar
is that Burma?
it used to be
they won’t let us have more than two children
they persecute us daily
we cannot travel freely and are refused citizenship
I wonder who “they are” so I ask.
rohingya people.
we cannot own land either.
the Burmese are holding a grudge, angry with us.
why?
our ancestors sided with the British
when?
1948 when they came into our country to steal our resources.
which ones?
jade, gems, oil, teak, natural gas
I try to get away from this crazy person.
there are fifty-four million other Buddhists living here.
surely some of them are more positive.
it begins to rain; a monsoon is not much easier to take.
I ponder the pavement way more these days
as I walk past crowds of angry faces
their glaring, daring, provocative gaze.
I look down and check my own shoelaces
as I approach, much safer than to chance
an eye contact with some angry tirade.
Easier to give the pavement a glance
as do we all, an urban masquerade.
As much as I enjoy chewing gum spats,
trashed burger wraps, old butts from cigarettes,
needles, black bags of trash with writhing rats;
some things about the past I have regrets.
Trading smiles with cheerful passing strangers
while strolling down the street with head held high,
cold soda pop, Smokey Bear, Park Rangers,
USA, the flag, mom and apple pie …
Written By: D. Collins 6/19/25
People like me come far and in between.
Able to document scars that happened to me.
I am not the first nor will I ever be the last.
A black man who brings to life things of the past.
The squablelicious code is in-breaded in me.
Not bowing without a fight is how it will be.
People like me sit from a different view.
Easier said than done if it didn't happen to you.
People like me don't even hold a grudge.
Because where we are is where it always was.
We do cyclical cycles that's been done before.
People like me would prefer something more.