Long Essay Poems
Long Essay Poems. Below are the most popular long Essay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Essay poems by poem length and keyword.
I should really be writing my essay (due tomorrow!) but I can't have this poem stand here
under my name without some well due editing. I would remove it but I feel like I have not
given the idea a fair amount of my effort.
Let me tell you the story of the man who wared with time
Let me tell you of the lying man who thought himself free from fate's monotonous rhyme:
This lying man would not a true story tell
To the masses: tales of himself in a regal crown he would sell
And they would ask: How come you here, great king?
And he would weave tales of abandoning his office for a woman's ring
Some would jeer and others cheer
But always he would smile ear to ear
At time in its grandeur he would leer
To priests he would lament of his heinous crimes, to never repeat them he swore
Begging their pity and reveling in the new skin he wore
So why, you may ask, does the liar lie of heinous acts
When he could lie of owning the grandest tracts?
And the snake of snakes would slither its tongue
And shed its skin, a coat in its closet so neatly hung
It would tell you a million tales, not one of them true
And never itself shed in any hue
For the flesh beneath may be soft and fickle
But the skin above is always rough and brittle
The flesh beneath once shed, would still the beating of his heart
The skin above once shed, would instill in his life immortality, the one true art
And always the happiest man alive he would be
Living the lives of any man his mind could see
And so the lying man would not a true story tell
The lying man would lie till the day he fell
That day the king of kings dies
The day the criminal meets his demise
While the lying man that was lives on in every story
As friends and foe would debate the king's glory
All the while the lying man that is sinks deeper into his grave
And that priest would remember a criminal who only mercy did he crave
And that coat of skins would weaken and tumble
The skins within gone brittle and begun to crumble
As the lying man that was, flesh and vulnerability, decays
All those skins he left behind, time will one day erase.
And so lying man, you had smiled in the face of time,
Done no great dead but steal what was theirs and mine
You had fallen thinking you had bested the clock
When only you had deafened yourself to the echo of tick tock
© Samir Georges
2010
He made no move at all
As the alarm clock went off.
But ten minutes later,
It was obvious he was awake.
He lifted himself out of bed
And went towards the bathroom.
He shaved himself
With a Gillette Techmatic
After having sploshed himself
With a double handful
Of icy cold water.
He washed again, dried his face,
Put on some Monsieur de Gauviche
And got dressed.
He wore a Brutus shirt,
A Tonik suit and a pair of
Shiny brown boots.
He was six foot two,
And he smoked sixty Players
Medium Navy Cut cigarettes
A day, and he lit each one
With a Ronson lighter.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
He was immaculate,
Wore long sideboards
And a long moustache,
And his hair was shortish
And well-combed.
His shirt was light blue,
And he wore a dark blue tie.
He wore two rings on each hand.
He washed himself
After his usual breakfast
Of toast, black coffee and health pills.
He cleaned his teeth thoroughly,
Put some more cologne on,
And then went to do
His isometrics.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest
Wardrobe in London.
He was born in London in 1940.
He went to Eton and Oxford,
Had taught at Oxford for eight years
But was sacked.
He had been an Oxford Rowing Blue,
And got a degree in English, Art and History.
His father was Lord Alfred Hardin, M.P.
Titus loved teaching,
And not many people know the reason
For his dismissal at the age of thirty one.
He was nearly expelled from Eton
For smoking, drinking,
And being head of a secret society
With secret oaths, but he was
Too promising a sportsman,
And all the boys respected him
As a prefect.
He was a fair-haired man
And very good-looking.
He was thirty two years old
And a bachelor,
And lived near Richmond, Surrey.
His flat was beautifully furnished.
His name was Titus Hardin,
And he had the biggest wardrobe in London.
(This jackadandy's original title was "An Essay Written by a Guy Who Was Too Lazy to Finish It", and it dates from my mid-teens.)
Let's play a game, shall we?
It's a fun little number I like to call
"Do I miss you because I love you,
or because you're my brain's scar tissue?"
Let's review the facts, shall we?
You're a spoiled NEET who took pleasure from my pain
From making me bend over backwards
And watching my free will vanish
Like a parasite, you latch on to everyone
Begging for gifts and food like a child
Passive-aggressively plotting when you don't get your way
And everyone gives in to get you to shut up
By all accounts, you're a horrible person
So tell me why, tell me why
Why do you still haunt my dreams at night?
Why does the thought of losing you still hurt me so?
You're like heroin
Because man, doing lines of you through the night
Was the greatest high when the trip was fine
And the comedown was so fierce
So here I lay, sweating yet freezing
Dope sick and hungover after the greatest afterparty
Craving another hit to feel the ceiling again
Gently gnawing on my twelfth step chip
But you weren't always that way, you know
The love we shared was once pure
And each day was a blessing that I'd give so much to return to
And I think that's the you that I miss
But hey, that person died two years ago
You wore her skin so well that I didn't realize
That I still had a body to bury
Before you skinned it and wore it
More often than not, it's the pure memories I recall
When I'm clutching my phone with my thumb above the send key
And another withdrawal pang hits my temple
And jolts my thumb to the clear key
So where are you now?
I can't imagine I'm in a much better place right now
Eating my fourth cup of cup noodles tonight
Poring over a broth stained essay
It's comforting to share a pitiful existence with you
Because in a weird way, I feel more connected with you than ever
Sharing a loving, tender kiss across time and space
As we both scoop the last shrimp from the bottom of the cup
But each cup leads me closer to my dream
As you stagnate at home
Self-actualization is a difficult concept to measure
But your NEET dream dies with the last of your savings
The sun rises and the glare from the screen hits my eyes
Another frosty December morning
Through the sight of the rising sun and the scars you left behind
For now at least, you and I are forever intertwined.
It always excited her curious mind.
Going on adventures, finding hidden treasures.
Journeying and exploring in deep dark unknown places.
Seeing all those lost faces...
She has no fear of the unknown,
she is never alone.
She sometimes wonders inside if there are any dangers to find.
A scream, a cry.
The truth is, she never knows whats waiting around the corner.
Death, fear, love...
This is not enough
There are millions of endless possibilities.
She believes she will never know unless she sees for herself.
Leave
Go...
She needs no help
She has to be alone...
Once upon a time in a place far far away from everything you have ever known,
further away than Zeus can throw, is a girl.
Lost, confused and dazed
Her thoughts run deeply, amazed.
She is running
She is hiding
She is searching
She is fighting,
for the truth.
A fountain of youth
Her destiny
A higher entity
The meaning of life...
It is not easy to find.
Millions of angels fill her path with light
She will not once look back behind.
One day she met a woman who was very kind
"Let me show u the way, I shall not lead you astray." She said
"My dear, you will be amazed by what you can find. Do not hide. No need to get a fright. I have been sent to lead you through the gates up ahead. Where the deepest bottomless hole is your only bet."
"Who are you within?"
Asked the Angel, guarding the eternal life.
His eyes were so passionate, stronger than the hottest fires.
It made her think...What have I been?
With all that I have seen, I will now scream: "I AM THE ETERNAL QUEEN. An describable thing. Hear my voice when i sing..."
She opened her mouth and words of purity filled the heavenly sky, overtaking the dark cold night.
Now she can fly
She will never again cry...
Every thought she has ever had, fills her inside.
Destroying her pride.
Suddenly, she realized.
This is how you die...
Every little thing, gets left behind...
In this journey through the universe, she found this eternal verse.
It is not a blessing, nor is it a curse.
It heals all heartache,
It loves through better or worse.
Follow this girl through the gates of the unknown.
Deep in a pit of screams, an abyss of unfulfilled dreams, you will be thrown.
See who you truly are, your lies will be forever shown.
To his Hungarian Jewish village, Moses returned
Atrocities were dismissed, his warnings spurned
He described Jews buried in ditches, gave details to persuade:
Agonized children, naked corpses, but the villagers were not swayed
Moses was diagnosed by his listeners as mad
He shouted, "Listen to me", but the wall was ironclad
He asked, "where are all the people who went with me west"?
But the Jews who listened, failed the "tolerance test."
The "tolerance test" is, don't dismiss out of hand
Don't blaze a trail if you don't scout the lay of the land
Entertain the proposition, look for details to disconfirm
Beware the snap judgement, ask, test, so you can learn.
A man came to warn Swiss Jews of genocide
They thought he was a propagandist, so he committed suicide
There is an essay written by a bitter Jew, Koestler was his name
He wote "we were dismissed as maniacs, we warned of the spreading flame"
To get photos out of Poland, some people died
But nine out of ten Americans thought witnesses lied.
British intelligence too couldn't bring themselves to believe
How could lazy heuristics so many deceive?
Finding the truth is not always an arduous task.
Sometimes it can be as easy as courage to ask.
Evidence can be ready to be assembled in your mind
Match up your clues and the answer you may find.
Truthtellers may be dismissed as lunatics, others as extreme
Some as paid-off liars, some as on the other team
There may be too many assumptions that have to be overthrown
Interpretations thought out of context, or overblown
Sticking with what your already know might be too seductive
Your logic might be good, but your model too reductive
A puzzle with missing pieces might never make sense
Unless you get off your chair and look for evidence.
A false idea of virtue can override what's real
Go by what you see, not just what you want to feel.
Some of us live in bubbles, caused by years of indoctrination
This makes it harder to trust sources, have a conversation
Koestler said his recurrent dream was being murdered on the side of a lane
Walkers talked and laughed, didn't hear his cries as he was slain
There are many misdiagnoses, mistakes, some drastic, some mundane
Let's make an effort to derail that deadly train.
I scribbled quickly
As they wrote their final exam
Little notes of appreciation
A special individualized message
Thanking each student
For having been in my class
And for bringing me joy
Reminding each one
Of the potential that lies within
For each is a remarkable individual
A personalized message
Of encouragement
And a shared Bible verse
Psalm 37: 4
This was a special class
Made up of pastors
A journalist
An architect
Adults from different walks of life
Some married
Others single
Some shy
Others bold
All wanting to become
Better writers
What an amazing group
My French came in handy
With my students from Algeria
How I loved their French accent
As they tried to pronounce
The bothersome words in English
Leaving a never ending smile on my lips
After they spent an hour writing
I made them pause
To have home baked brownies
I’d made from scratch
Along with a soft drink
A time to relax…
Refreshed
They continued on their essays
And I decorated each note
With stickers
“Great Work”
“Way to Go”
“Excellent”
“You are a Star”
And for the women
Lots of hearts!
I love hearts
They decorate my office
Pillows
Key rings
Earrings
And now
My little notes
Which came straight from my heart
Each one got to exchange the finished essay
For a handwritten note from the teacher
I said with a sheepish grin
“These stickers are not because you are a child….
But…because I am!
I am a child at heart!"
That brought smiles
And a hug from
The journalist from Brazil
“I’m going to cry,” she said.
As she gave me a bear hug
My heart sang
They had learned to love writing
What greater joy could be mine?
The Brazilian journalist
Met me in church last Sabbath,
Gave me another warm hug and said,
“Teacher, thank you for the note
You inspired me to do my best.”
And what she couldn’t articulate well
Sparkled in her eyes
And danced in her hand motions
Silly little stickers
Simple little words
A whole lot of love
Love for my students
EVERYONE needs some encouragement
Everyone needs to know
That inside the heart resides
A wealth of beauty longing to be expressed
A piece of the soul that longs to live forever
In the written word
I thank God I’m a teacher
After all,
I’m in good company
For, the GREATEST Teacher of all time
Jesus Christ
Is my mentor!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I guess I don't write how other people do. I don't post pictures of myself and update on how my life is going... I don't have an audience for that. Honestly, I write whatever comes to my mind because it gives the illusion that I'm telling people how I feel. I'm never good at that. I have so many opportunities, but its always the same thing that gets me. How much do they really want to know? When they ask if I am okay, do they want an answer, or is it because it's common courtesy.. I don't get myself, so how am I supposed to get other people? A teacher told me today, after assigning an essay, "It's easy, it's all about you!" ...... How little she knows that I can't write about me. When people say, "Tell me about yourself," the initial reaction I have is always the same. I say that I love writing and reading, and that I love kids and want to be an elementary school teacher. That's it. I'm done then. When I write, my thoughts are incomplete, and I don't write for any other reason than to satisfy all these raging thoughts that will not leave me alone. It's worse at night. Lying awake while the house is silent, all except for the air conditioning that makes a whistle and my ceiling fan on high that clicks because the high setting makes it shake. I count shadows that the trees cast through my window, but it can't push away the onslaught of emotions and wave of loneliness. I have tried many things: music, scriptures, novels, conference talks, silence, writing.. but nothing compares to the feeling I used to get when I would lay on my roof in Maryland and look up at the stars. I felt closer to Heaven somehow, and yet at that time in my life I knew I was very far from it. I'm not there and I won't ever be again, but the loneliness remains. Some people can make me laugh and smile no matter how horrible I feel. It's ironic that I feel alone when I have a best friend like Emma to cheer me every day, but I do. I'm glad I always have people around me during the day. There, I said it. I like people. But I hate them too. I like being alone, but during insomnia periods, awake voices are so very welcome. Sometimes I wish I could tell people things again, but my trust is gone. I cannot lean on others, no matter how alone and lost I feel.
Penelope Alecknavage nee perskin whose death aye assay
to comprehend, this son of the late Harriet Harris -
November thirteenth 2016 marked her eighty first birthday
if she still lived these last eleven years - instead met crossway
where grim reaper awaited - though my mum sought to delay
futility to accept Pyrrhic outcome - homage pep rally
thru poetry n essay
writing, and finding cadence of words
helps me (with powder milk biscuits)
gather courageous foray
and means to grapple with demise
of a loved one, and hence my gray
matter sifts thru childhoods' end,
where remembrance of hooray
amidst claque of chattering aunts, cousins, and uncles
the fuzzy interplay
of Penny racing at dog speed across lawn of family home
cordoned off via a jackstay
looms in forefront of my mind,
vulnerable to grief most people sad - me, oh kay,
reckons cessation of life = equalizer of sorts
when significant person without breath doth lay
Tom foolery deft hands of motley crue prestidigitation
playing game versus sobbing as corpse
driven to graveside viz motorway,
where belief at such stark catastrophe - nay
numbness pervades next of kin survivors
especially when passing occurs pre-holiday,
yet no matter whence one departs
bobbing along River Styx to unreachable quay
mourning iz broken with nary sunny and Cher full ray
to warm earth, wind and fire - seeking soul asylum,
trying to blink away ill logic cheap trick re: acceptance,
but inxs of tears for fears begs scene 2b screenplay
not hard rocking coldplay accursed reality
terminal illness ushers helplessness cuz part of ourselves
agonizingly rent asunder, which psychic tearaway
far exceeds any physical pain, and will underlay
the immediate future, which bodes hollow
with the sounds of silence
despite informing musicians or veejay
to lighten moody blue -
boot invariably bono fide, green day,
Lady gaga emitting beat,
per the human league (plus the culture club
of heart felt village people affiliated with goo goo doll
traversing into nirvana)
creates clangorous discordant ringing
increasing nostalgia for loved one lost before yesterday!
>>1111>>REVELATION>1111>>Quincy Mac<<1111<<
date written: 11.22.2015
I go to the supermarket
to buy some mangoes.
I’ve had five coffees
And spent hours on detangling
computer wires.
Reciting a poem I remember
from fourth grade
I opened another three college
letters in the mail yesterday.
The mailman’s teeth were yellow.
We regret to inform you
We regret to inform you
We regret to inform you that
There are no mangoes in store
Says the employee,
Eyes grey and sunken. I notice
His neon blue shirt has
thinly stuck to the skin.
I wander and run my hand around
metal
cold the fridges are cold
I open the door and let the icy
sternness turn me numb.
Maybe my face will fall off.
Perhaps I can write about it in a
supplemental essay.
What is one difficulty you’ve
had to overcome.
Well you see one day they had no mangoes
So I slept overnight
on the kitchen tool isle.
I carried a packet of Pop Tarts with me
only to put it back as I left.
In the morning I prayed for a mango tree in
Hazy misty weather.
I notice a puff of greasy air.
There can grow no mangoes here
For it is all ashen and tarnished and empty.
Look, that street where I would once turn
with my dog to go to the park.
When I was five how lovely it had been.
I remember green and summer
and bees and boys.
Now, my hands have written themselves
away – inked blue.
I pull my scarf behind my neck
twirling it around myself once more. Note
Need to Call Aunt Celine for Christmas.
Taking a walk is good for the body.
Aimless walking can be a primary sign
of depression.
Daily activity helps to relieve
stress.
Try not to let it take your spark away.
That's what they always say.
Lights pierce my eyes and
I missed a friend’s party.
Called in sick
from the lights.
We have other fruit available if you’d like.
Kindly I turn down the
meaty strawberries.
Perhaps I could buy some gum
Or whiteout.
I think about how
the city seems as stiff as I do.
In the chilled morning, before I leave.
How nice would it have all been
If I simply had some mangoes.
A soda and these rice cakes will do.
Maybe I should grow my own –
There in the sun cracks –
thread between sky and portwater.
There may grow my mango tree.