Long Exact Poems
Long Exact Poems. Below are the most popular long Exact by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exact poems by poem length and keyword.
two mice
in my room
at night
gnawing as
if a clock
one from my
bed to the
left and the
other to
the right
they exude the
illusion of time
getting past
every trap and
so their rasping
dentures
on wood
one the second
the other the
minute hand
and so they carry
on carrying on all
hours of the night
as if they want me
to once again set
the traps for the
exact reason of
being to be able
to smell and maybe
take the chance to
taste peanut butter
other then wooden
floor boards or
boring wine corks
that surely have
corked by now
yet now the day
and a day of
silence for
storing
their energy they
will nightmarishly
keep me awake
tonight as only
they see as no
light so their
stirring life
begins and
again the
gnawing
this ain't no
metephore
because my
wife i met her for
a reason
and these
mice are
just
teething
but teasing
but they
should've
listened to
the crickets
before eating
them because
that'll be the
day before i
cry but that'll
be the day
before
i die
Form:
It is not once or twice I lack
The words to describe the indescribables
The ink to write the numerous stories
Of how he came and went and came back
To mend the hearts he had tone apart
To console the souls he had tattooed with wounds
To mop the ocean of the tears he caused us
And hold us in his slender thighs
Put our heads on his chest and let us feel his heartbeat
The heartbeat of sorrows and regret
The heartbeat of repentance seeking for forgiveness
And I could feel his warm breath dumping my forehead
Reminding me of the love he once had for us
Of the ear to ear laughter he caused by his funny jokes and comments
This particular day revenge was the best
But I couldn't do it anymore
Upon seeing the tears forming artistic number eleven on his chubby cheeks
Upon remembering that this is the man who gave my mum the best sperm
I couldn't hold the grudge anymore
Because if he asked me to pay whatever good he had done for me,
I can't give him the exact sperm he gave
Yes,he is my father and whenever he seeks for forgiveness,he has it!
John Lenda (Poetic World,2022)
Getting old,
It creeps up, it's here.
It is fuzzy, warped,
And unclear.
.
You cannot pinpoint
The exact time.
From young to old,
When you cross that line.
Things ache and throb
In the morning dew.
Things you want, taunt
And tease you.
I seem to be slower,
And wiser
Seed out the loser, scammer
And the liar.
Some things are not
Worth the energy.
If you mingle you,
Have the remedy.
I'm less tolerant;
But have more empathy.
Won't give up, have
No use for sympathy.
I know that looks
Are secondary.
Age shows you,
They are temporary.
I can enjoy the
Younger generation.
We can get along no
Expectations.
You cruise along until
Your time is done.
You walk now,
No time to run.
Turbo1904 ?
.
The standard tragedy of love is not that it ends,
but that it can coexist with total self - erosion.
You are trapped in the ultimate paradox of intimacy:
the profound cruelty of a soulmate
who functions as a sanctuary and a executioner
in equal measure.
It is the agonizing choice between
the preservation of one’s own sanity
and the preservation of one's most profound love.
How does the mind reconcile this ruinous contradiction?
That the very source of my quietest torment -
the one who leaves me feeling invalidated,
exposed, utterly erased,
and perpetually insufficient -
is the exact same sovereign to whom I have surrendered my heart?
If I walk away, I know the haunting that awaits me:
I will spend the rest of my days seeking your shadow in every stranger’s face.
I will seal my heart against the world,
swearing an oath to never grant another soul this power.
You are already woven into the fabric of my biology -
lodged in every shallow breath,
every desperate pulse of my exposed chest,
every drop of blood and salt wrung from a body I no longer feel is mine.
Without you, I would have remained ignorant of love’s staggering depth.
And yet, I despise you. I despise the hollow, terrified creature I become in your presence.
Yet here I remain, paralyzed. I cannot endure another exit.
I love you to the brink of ruin -
a devotion so absolute that even death feels like an insufficient boundary.
You are bound to me forever, and in your own fractured,
catastrophic way, I know you love me the very most, too.
But why must devotion demand such utter devastation?
I am suspended between two voids. I am suffocating in the open air.
And in the darkest, quietest chamber of my heart,
I harbor a simple, treacherous truth:
I wish our paths had never crossed.
Tired of reaching out for something not yet touched.
Tired of living for something not yet found.
Tired of listening to something not yet heard.
Tired of picturing something not yet seen
Tired of hoping and praying for something not yet made.
I reach out for help as I can feel myself drowning in my own sorrows.
I live to see another day just to feel the same exact way.
I sit and listen for something to get me out of this prison.
I try to picture my future but all I can see are flickers and dreadful blisters.
I hope but all I can do is try and cope.
I pray and all I can do is dread another day.
"Help!" Is the only thing that leaves my mouth.
Tears are the only things that leave my eyes.
Blood is the only thing that leaves my skin,
Yet all I can do is say "I'm fine".
I carry music folded in my chest
Like winged light sleeping in a sheltered place,
A single sound can wake a thousand stars
And every silence holds a special place.
I speak in numbers—clean and luminous—
Where sums fall into order like the tide,
The calm, exact obedience of truth
That never falters, never shifts aside.
I keep the past as if it were still warm,
Each hour preserved like petals pressed in glass;
No moment truly dies within my mind,
The way it does for those who let things pass.
And some are born with language in the blood,
I hear the ache behind the spoken word,
I shape the unsayable into breath,
And give a voice to all we never heard.
The world calls this my miracle of the mind,
Yet little knows the cost of seeing so—
To feel too much, to carry too much light,
To stand where deeper currents always flow.
I do not seek the praise of crowded rooms,
My gift unfolds in solitude and flame;
The work itself becomes a quiet prayer,
The truth I serve forgetting about fame.
Through music’s fire, through memory’s long ache,
Through measured stars of mathematics spun,
Through poetry that binds my broken speech,
My scattered fragments gather into one.
And what I give is not just skill or proof,
But ways of seeing I had never known—
I widen what it means to be alive,
And make the human condition my own.
My lines ought to make people quip
easy to relate to and comprehensively equipped
achieving so many a quatrain
is a technical feet to attain.
Maintaining this, I feel queasy
nurturing the consistency is really uneasy
you can be an extraordinary Quasar
if its unlikely to be a normal star
No exact fulfillment doesn’t deserve the quibble
your light is also very much valuable
not getting it right may begin a quietude
avoiding this is a test of my aptitude.
It’ll be short, fitting a page in a size quite quarto
about its expressions, nothing really macho
Wow! All 4-lined verses seem quicky
And the target has been met with great success so low keyed.
We can go for dinner and have a discussion,
a bit of mass debating when we're done masticating.
If you come and eject fluid situations,
give it hard with the exact impact you lay shown,
stand perfectly straight and strong when projecting,
you'll feel you can handle the hard times alone,
and spray the floor in awe and arouse.
Fire at will, keep comments coming,
come with them from different angles,
keep it coming together, back and forth,
give each other a hand to fluctuate a juicy content with flow,
always announce, "I'm gona command"
to one another before you fire away.
Start slow,
upping the beat and beating out the debate at a faster rate.
Go through the motions to get to fun fast pacing blast debating.
You will feel a great relief at the end of this intense group activity,
with powerful ejections, one or two oral pleasurers no doubt,
but mostly it's hands on,
so make sure your pen is in your hand,
your pen is out, and the pen is in the hands at all times.
If your pen is leaking in vain thus messy, we'll stop,
tissues are on tables, bins are behind you, clean up, put it in,
and when a new pen is handled in both hands,
showing you're ready, we'll whack on.
Keep your eye on the ball, good luck in this test to all,
give those judging the winner, a tough test to call,
because the headmasters mass debaters
go fast as a team mass debating.
Commit to the debate and show class of a master,
have a massive class debate.
Remember the pen is in your hand from start to finish,
don't lose grip, be on the ball,
enjoy your mass debating.
Work hard and mass debate as you play,
have fun.
Good luck.
Mass debate away.
I woke up this morning between dust and wonder lust
And I confessed to the screen presence of a prodigy in my monitor
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"
I also remember the exact line, often than not
with her wrinkled skin, or his a bit trembling hand on the steering,
Here they misunderstand too early
There is a probability of an unseen Beatrice everywhere, everyway
And all I understand
Old people love early
And the love is gold
And a parable is paying the dues
incurring later angels with your electricity bills
finding bad dark spots on your teen aged girl's skin.
Who is growing up, on a day, you did, way before
She hears a boy in response. A SOUND!
When she said, hi!
And he roared with his bike! O my! O my!
The world is loud with breaking the disputed law
that rings God's Gospell in a spell binder!
Mad they say I appear it
the price of a free spirit
you won’t find me conforming
like Norman learning from Gordon before him
with ordinary Audrey of course how they all be
and Shirley who surely showed she the sheep need
supposedly me unblended with society
slightly odd I be obviously
I’ve problems impulsive exciting
intentions repulsive insulting
they laugh or sit sulking
too I inciting
to strike like a light beam
bright like lightning
loud like thunder
awake like slumber
unpredictable actions
must stop acting them
the impact in fact
an exact dumb
too them for me fun
offensive unthought
offending I thought
I’ll own up
I’ve never grown up
they tried to correct me they just corrupt
psychologically struck psychology stuck
to get this head needs more than luck
style starved wild card vile bard child heart
if you don’t fit in you drive them berserk
one of those being different perks
around him awkwardly
cus he aint ordinary
aint married Audrey
aint how he ought to be
lost hold the wally
off his trolley
in rain without brolly
didn't eat his broccoli
or turn out properly
no Norman or Gordon
certainly not Shirley
and assuredly not Audrey
oh how tools breed
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