Long Erratically Poems
Long Erratically Poems. Below are the most popular long Erratically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Erratically poems by poem length and keyword.
Rosette tapestries of unparalleled glamour
Embroided thoroughly by the wittiest clamor
Magnanimously amorous in grace and wonder
Bewitching and charming though so yonder
Rhetorically out bounding my frugal thoughts
To be "irresistible", my flawless pure cause
Starlight's amiss your ornate romantic spell
Driving me sweetly to madly deep to compel
Handful of metaphors and highfalutin words
Illuminating. Inspiring. Invigorating.
Incubating anyone with one unique style
Wonderful, beautiful, matchless, they foretell
Vividly inventive and bombastic with each stroke
To hardened hearts, you can surely start to stoke
Erratically tender enough to adagio break the silence
Drawing anyone for more and more to your essence
by:
olive eloisa
2:54 pm
Revised April 24, 2014
CONTEST: ANY POEM #24
Sponsor: POET DESTROYER A
3RD PLACE
9/21/17
Just a human being
Heart, erratically beating
Scarred up from bleeding
Wheezing
Lungs and difficulty breathing
The same can be said for sleeping or dreaming
Someday from this place, I'll be leaving
Eyes, having trouble seeing
During the day and evening
Cheers!
Ears yet a severe
Problem with the ability to hear
Brain yet not truly thinking
Continually drinking
Like it's no big thing
Not a matter of mere days
Bones that break and age
Despite the winds of change
During any phase and stage
Regardless of if it happened to amaze
Or was considered strange
I'm not a kidder
Muscle that'll eventually wither
For any person and critter
Across the Earth
Organs that start to hurt
Then no longer work
Might seem all good and fine
It's just a matter of time
So while you can, enjoy the ride
Everything in the summer is like a bog.
Even when you live in the driest desert.
Bog, fog, everything is dragging along.
Summer mosquitoes.
Open toed shoes, letting in sand, and mud.
Everything is sinking, sickly.
When it’s summer, you can buy an ice cream cone.
Which is nice for five minutes.
Then the bog, fog, and haunting stretch of road continues.
Summer starts around June.
And peaks everyday at noon.
By 10:30 pm,
We can’t sleep because it’s hot.
Nothing takes away the dry breath and murky feeling.
Not even the summer butterflies which fly erratically.
The window is closed and the air conditioning is on.
Sounds of June.
July will still be summer.
A hotter, more draining summer.
Continues.
Heard the term “outside the box”?
What box are they referring to?
Sitting in my jammies at my computer
Don't see no box, do you?
A term you hear a lot these days
What can it possibly mean
This old guy is totally confused
Totally betwixt and between
Catch phrases have always confused me
Prefer simple Dick and Jane words
So all us grandpas can decipher them
This stuff is sure for the birds
Maybe I'll get an old cardboard box
And sit me therein for a while
Then emerge and start thinking of stuff
In a clever “outside the box” style
Really that's not at all what it means
Heard someone say emphatically
To go where no man has gone before
Think a lot more erratically
Now confused much more than ever
Think I'll lie down for a while
Till the world spins a few more times
And I get back my winning smile<>
head heavy
in hands
squeezing pounding temples
trapped in a trance
seated in this place
of emptiness and despair
the place that has welcomed
all of my fears and fractures
my heart pounds erratically
my eyes swollen and shot
a hypnotic gaze
into the somber gray
stone tile floor
that I’m sure
is hiding the demons
I have chosen to ignore
the ventilation fan
is loud and deafening
please stop, please stop
for God’s sake!
the churning acid
arouses anxiety in my angry pit
my blurry awakening shameful face
is exposed and shunned
a fading illusion
of my demand
that I’ve had enough
I’m finally done
what does this vicious cycle
have in store
just like yesterdays
just like tomorrows
“bite the hair”
the temptation to escape
always near
addiction is a seductive liar
that manipulates and deceives
not willing to seek restraint
until every sense of self-worth
is destroyed and torched in fire
my mind twists painfully
in a chaotic frenzy
memories that won’t decompose
a persistent clamor
reliving the bowels
of a drained and disappointed past
the blews persist,
unyielding in their grip
a lifetime,
of dark and ugly people
of dark and ugly decisions
mind drifts,
to even darker uglier thoughts
In a world where dreams are rakish and quixotic,
Where quiddity seems extravagantly chaotic,
A chivalrous soul dares to be different.
With a heart that beats fervently, so magnificent.
Romantic notions dance in their minds.
A visionary quintessence they find,
Chimerical dreams they hold dear,
Preposterous, dreadful tracks they fear.
Age is just a number, they say.
Irrelevant in the pellucid pursuit of their way,
Happiness is the sense that one matters,
And their dreams are the ladder.
In a world where opia destruction prevails,
Where chaos and despair often trail,
Quixotic evidence emerges, bold and bright.
Roguish scope for rebuilding shines a light.
Dare to alter the world, they proclaim.
With sapidity gnawing such a flame,
It may seem quixotic, and some may sneer.
But their seraphic vision is so clear.
For in their hearts, they sojourn the key.
In a world where dreams roam free,
Where impossibilities become realities
And it's in this world, they find their vitality.
There is no scarcity of opportunity.
To earn a living doing what they love, with glee,
Chasing in kuebiko without compromise.
For in their dreams, their spirit lies.
It erratically seems as if curbing entropy,
Is our quixotic goal in the cosmos, you foresee,
But in the midst of chaos, they stand tall.
With a determination that never stalls.
In a world where dreams are quixotic,
They refuse to be virtuosically robotic.
They believe in the anecdoche dreams.
And nothing, awry reality, dims their gleams.
They agnize that each sonder is just a number.
And that happiness is a monachopsis to remember.
They embrace the chivalrous and the romantic.
With an onism spirit that's truly ecstatic.
Word Bank:
Rakish: Smart; jaunty; dashing
Quixotic: Idealistic
Quiddity: Core-Subconscience
Chivalrous: Sublime, virtuous
Pellucid: Translucently clear
Opia: Dope, Addiction
Sapidity: Zest, Sapor
Kuebiko: State of exhaustion
Entropy: A situation of panic or disorder
Anecdoche: Amusing Tale
Sonder: Empathy, Compassion
Monachopsis: Confused
Onism: Delineate the awareness of how little of the world we will experience
My heart beats erratically…
For reasons I can't explain…
I find myself in pain.
Each beat resounds with an ache.
I wonder…
How much more will my feelings take?
I wonder what could it be this time.
I wonder why I am lost in thought again—
Not just figuratively,
But in every essence of the word.
My hands on my chest
Do not pacify;
Instead they attempt to pierce through like a sword.
I hold myself up,
Gasping for air,
Screaming out of fear.
My desire to fade away grows.
I fear one day
I might truly disappear.
The urge grows stronger and stronger.
I walk unsteadily,
Seeking solitude.
My screams…
This might be it.
The fog of confusion
Swirls all around me.
I remain
In a constant loop
Of repetition.
…Laughter echoes from the depths of my mind—
One that tells a joke,
A joke of me.
Slowly I begin to lose control.
The sound of my own voice prickles me,
And a picture of me causes my heart to ache.
I wonder…
What is this?
This feeling of abhorrence—
Who’s it for?
…Could it be me?
Why does it feel like
It only grows
More and more?
Will I ever go back to what I used to be before?
The questions I ask receive no answer.
I walk,
Swaying from left to right,
Yet I feel that despite my resistance
I know that
I am losing this fight,
That it's getting darker,
My tunnel losing light.
I feel myself sinking deeper,
As if I never stopped falling from the heights.
I quiver ever so slightly.
I hold myself tightly
While I wait,
For each batch
Hits harder than the last.
I grow weaker with each hit.
I wonder, is this it?
My demise seems inevitable.
Yet I cling to hope,
Looking out into the void—
WAITING.
…waiting… waiting… wai.t..ing.
Wai…t..ing…
W..ai..ti..ng…
My waiting becomes longing.
Slowly it becomes despair.
---
Brenda skipped school too frequently
to hang out with her junkie boyfriend;
she came home acting very erratically,
her behavior bothered mom and dad.
When asked why she played hockey
while she should have been in school,
her reply was words minced with lies;
barely fourteen, she looked eighteen...
her wish was to be popular and cool.
by pretending she was a free teen.
One can only fool their parents twice,
and the third attempt became tricky.
Brenda tried to figure out how
to mince more words with lies,
planning a scheme that horrified;
her idea was premidated murder
thought out with her vile friend.
Horrible thoughts came out of her,
a decision was made somehow
to end the existence of two lives.
It was unusual for Brenda to be nice instead,
the grudge for her parents was obvious and
feeling outraged, she had to act out her fantasy:
her evil spirit woke up and did strike violently.
That early Saturday night, all was peaceful as usual
in the living room, Bowen and Kelly watched Hannibal...
perhaps they should have watched a comedy, not horror;
very little they knew they would have witnessed terror.
Brenda and Vince proceeded as they had planned,
they stabbed to death two harmless, loving souls;
neither she nor he felt any compassion or remorse.
An evil minded one allowed this to happen to avoid
mincing words with lies and fear a menacing curse;
now behind bars, they have joined other criminals.
Written on 6/20/2016
Thanks to you all
Thanks to those who come to
poetrysoup.com, practise poems,
write, read and share poems
and comment on others
Thanks to those who read my
writings, do comments, follow
me, avoid my poems, block
and ban me from their list
Thanks to you all
I’ve no eternity here, all of me
from least to chest, best to edge,
sharpen blade of new paddy leaves
jeopardize my torn nib of ink
in the field of writings graph
Maybe I couldn’t write any word
for beauty and stunning young girl
in comprehension, in passion and
in my fashionable heart
Maybe I couldn’t write charming note
of flower’s petals, striking fragrance,
in my perpetuity lake of quills
Maybe I couldn’t draw the sexy body of
rose, lotus, tulip, sunflower, orchid,
lily, daffodil… etc in my vulnerable
reef of poetic expression
Maybe I couldn’t draw the colors magic
of rainbow in my infatuated fallen
soaked feathers with November rain
Maybe I couldn’t inscribe the nature
the cosmos, the solar system, the ocean,
the black hole, the space, the sky, the stars,
the planets, the galaxies, the meteors, the
gravitational power…etc in my slumbering
wings of writings
Maybe I couldn’t plant the meditational
tree into the pure heart of words, I couldn’t
select the seeds of immortality in my
ascetic madness and magma script
Maybe I couldn’t greet the autonomy flying
of Cockatiels, Parakeets, Canaries, Finches,
African Grey Parrots, Budgerigars, Cockatoos,
Conures, Macaws, Poicephalus…etc in my
unintelligible incarcerated language
Maybe I couldn’t hail the abode for Labrador,
Bulldog, German, Poodle, Beagle… etc and
Maine Coon, Egyptian Mau, American Bobtail,
Ragdoll…etc in my materialistic
harvesting terminology
Maybe I couldn’t sleep with power of poems,
dream to be a finest classic or modern poet
in my kingdom of pen, paper, ink, writing
table-chair and lamp
Notwithstanding all these, I thanks to those
who come here at least one time daily,
erratically and read, write, share own
thoughts and comment frankly
Thanks to you all a lot. Thanks and love you
all. From me always ready the rose without
thorns and love for you all, although you bleed
my heart by thorns stinging
-November 14, 2018 Chattogram
////
DEDICATED TO POETRYSOUP.COM and ALL POETS-POETESSES OF THIS ESTEEMED LITERARY SITE
The day I was diagnosed.
That’s what first comes to mind.
But they want me to start at the beginning.
Maybe they mean something as simple as my childhood.
I wasted my childhood not knowing.
Then I wasted my teen years being in denial.
But still, the image of my life scattered.
Forcing me to collect new pieces to the puzzle.
Pieces that will never fit.
Yet my collection grows hopelessly.
The second time I was diagnosed.
That is the second event.
Maybe it’s easier to start from that point in time.
And explain everything more and more erratically.
Until I’ve explained everything until this moment.
Now I can narrate what is about to happen.
You will walk away nervously.
And I will walk away graciously.
Going home to frantically write and scribble.
Finding the right formula.
There’s still a few more people left in my life who deserve an explanation.
The day I was diagnosed…
Is not what matters now.