Long Falsified Poems
Long Falsified Poems. Below are the most popular long Falsified by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Falsified poems by poem length and keyword.
ARTISTIC RHYTHM OF LIFE
Days painted in lavender,
dancing to the rhythm of life,
the staged sphere is my canvas,
the feet is the double-egded pen
as steps rave in blurred tones,
see the moon-walk in my sunset
like MJ sliding on to stardom
gliding with each stroke.
Dancing to the rhythm of life,
shoes tangle around different angle,
breakdancing to break forlonity & my gloom
falsified by the brightness of light joy brings,
Table turns as the fire in me burns
and inspire in me a lyric;
Arts, music, dance...my cave and clinic.
Therein lies a universe of joy & power,
a kingdom that surpasses imaginations.
Dancing to the rhythm of life,
though challenges welcome you in,
but in victory you exit through doors:
We enter as humans but left as gods.
Dance as the edge of brush glides through canvas,
tirelessly moving in rhythmic spirals.
Though your labour may endure for the night,
your joy will come in the morning
and brings fearless living not careless dealing.
Dancing to the rhythm of life,
sharing love and not telling-off,
dance like lillies in the woods;
visions will come, inspiration beckons...
Powers expand & comes understanding
to teleport from battles to the throne of heaven,
where Judah Himself fights for you
then you become a mere spectator
in your own earthen Battles.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © July, 2020.
I recently went to court to show
a supposed voice of reason
paperwork that had been falsified
by one within his own profession;
to my "If the glove don't fit, you must acquit" surprise,
the only real voice of reason was mine -
the pristine-looking image
of a con artist, theatrical profession
had to be more important than the truth.
We tell our children to strive to become
something bigger, better, and richer;
instead, we should be telling them to
become bigger, better, and life richer
than the superficial cheaters we usually
have them look up to while they are growing up.
For "The Voice Of Reason" contest sponsored by Paula Swanson.
In sepia foliage's of falsified fantasies,
cursed by haunting hornets stinging
with honeyed painted lies,
her mind was like a matriarch of metaphors.
An inflorescent seed buried in darkness,
with a somnolent spirit rustling in onyx nostalgia.
Too afraid to spread her fragile feathers,
she lay upon a bed of black rose petals,
veiled underneath dark raven phases,
hidden behind the silence of lunar secrets,
Her soul slept like grieving ghosts of galactic graves,
repeatedly releasing wounded sighs.
Not all florets flourish
with the mercy of rainwater,
only nourishing hands can create
an aesthetic pastel carnival of confetti,
like lilac lavender snowflakes of smoky love.
Some spicy spirits are like
the marigold locket of liquid,
glowing like turmeric hues
in tamarind tinted skies of oblivion,
clearing diaphanous dewdrops
of a grainy hourglass,
spreading vintage violet wishes
in bluish epiphany skies,
disintegrating a montage
burnt to nefarious ashes,
raising amaranth pink petals
of heartfelt empathy.
There is a magic in midnight reigns,
as dawn retreats, dusk births a saviour knight,
altering twilight's twinkling tunnel
of kismet stars perfumed with sins.
Moonlight spreads a subtle silk scent
when fears fall like cosmic dust,
soothing a scarred moon soul and stars in slumber.
Not all flowers need a gardener to grow,
but all seedsmen sow to bloom an ivory aurora,
through the obscurity of ebony eyes.
Sometimes, its the simple touch of fingertips,
that lays the perfect foundations,
for a sunflower to embellish in gold.
Because I'm gifted with your vast confidence
Because the past makes a better present tense
Because all our trust was built on confidence
Because handing you floral glass represents
Because your presence relaxes me when tense
Because finding caring and believing in one another was no coincidence
It must have hurt when you felt my permanence
It's very hard to find someone of substance
Remember you made the choice of consequence
Betrayed me tearing down our accomplishments
All the while frustrating me; providing reprehends
Believing your intuition; showed malevolence
You're just another form of falsified acceptance
I'm better off; our goodbye was of no consequence
Several physicists and astronomers have successfully secured significant funding by pioneering or advancing dark matter research. Key researchers who have garnered substantial grants and resources for dark matter experiments Scientific research fraud is an increasing crisis where fabricated, falsified, or plagiarized data is published, often orchestrated by "paper mills" that produce fake studies for profi twith a big check, flowers, and champagne. Either a new series of
"Horrible people"oralent scams targeting aspiring actors, using recording equipment to convey their world domance message. "Who are You," The fella said. I anwsered Pro.Mathieu DaCosta and you pointing to the other guy: who anwsered frowning I'm Dr. Vicente Guerrero. There is a A dark matter monster, out here invisible to the eye but it presences can be felt. We have to figure out a way to find it, see it and destroy it! It is invisible to the human eye, appearing only as a gravitational disturbance—a shimmering, lensing effect that bends light, similar to heat haze or water, distorting stars and galaxies behind it. It possess massive gravity, it appear as a "halo" of tarry, fluid black goo, and takes form as shifting, shadowy tentacles,.We are tasked with building a dark matter detceter!
?????? ???????/Ànwùzh file number.0000vzv.001. What maddeness is this?" What pseudoscience maddness is this" It's the seriousness of these times these new times were collabrative effect are needed! Stop your vwaffling and do the right thing: do the work this galaxy needs to survive this "Dark Matter thing"!
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Fritz Zwicky Report
Space, fiction:sceince fiction collabertive affects.!
They fade away
Like distant memories
Do not cling to their toxic remarks
It’s meant to pull you down
Hidden behind
Their smiles and falsified hugs
Of reassurance
Watch their hands
Watch your back
Do a double take
For the marks made by their knives
You might not feel it now
It might be just a scratch or two
Until it finds a foothold
And they grind them deep into your flesh
It is so easy to be sucked in
The need to belong so strong
Until the dark days come
And you are left alone
Wondering what happened
To the joy riders
They got off the wagon
Once they saw the self destruction sign
Up ahead
They did it with a smile
It is the only thing they know
Running away is their expert play
Lift your head up
Cry if you have to
But don’t give up
You still have a chance
This time do it with a sober mind
Do it for you
©175007072013
SOMETIMES, I AM TIRED OF HIDING MYSELF AS A MAN
IN A SOCIETY THAT THINKS A MAN’S PAIN DOES NOT EXIST…
EXHAUSTED FROM FEELING LIKE I AM NOT ALLOWED MY TEARS…
CONFUSED ABOUT WHY,
IF WITNESSED IN THE PUBLIC’S EYES,
I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO CRY.
FRUSTRATED WITH THE THOUGHT THAT, AS A MAN,
I CANNOT SHED MY EMOTIONS
ON MY PARTNER’S SHOULDER.
PRIVATELY ENRAGED AT A SOCIETY
THAT THINKS VULNERABILITY IN A MAN
IS A SIGN OF WEAKNESS.
THINKING TO MYSELF,
“HERE I GO,”
WITH ANOTHER PERFORMANCE.
ANGRY AT HOLDING ON
TO A FALSIFIED SMILE
WHEN I’M HURTING.
SO AS I WRITE THIS POEM,
IT IS WRITTEN FOR ALL MEN—
A READING FOR YOUR HEARTS TO MEND.
AND KNOW
YOU HAVE PERMISSION
TO BE ALL VERSIONS OF YOURSELF.
Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy
Parent presents herself as distressed, concerned, loving
Major caregiver to child who appears perpetually sickly
Child’s symptoms are exaggerated
Worse yet, sometimes falsified by mother
She might contaminate the urine samples
Child gets better in hospital until mommy dearest visits
What is happening?
Nurses are the first to suspect
Doctors do not want to think this way
Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy
A mental illness whereby a caregiver
Starves or poisons child
Sadly, many of them are health professionals
Wanting others to consider them saviors
As they save their child once again from the cliff of death
Feel the blood pour down
Like rain on my face
Looking up to the sky
Try to find my place
Is it here looking down
To be gazing upon you
Your corpse is the product
My hate is the feul
I let out a smile
This feeling is different
I feel in control
No need to repent it
Is this truly freedom
Or a falsified illusion
When it comes to destruction
I feel some confusion
Im powerful, capable
Able to end it
But just cause i can
Does it mean i should do it?
Its only up here,
Looking down at your bones
That i feel all this power
So i sit on my throne
The throne is of thorns though
Something not quite right
Because, though it feels good
Doesnt make this alright
I soak up this feeling
Write it into a rhyme
And ill hold myself back
Well... at least till next time.
Anaphylactic identity, constricting logic on the
course towards infinity. Denial is drawn like a tarot
reading, citing that it is all in your head. Hidden
mysteries written in code - the key etched in our
divinity. Searching for a God who shoulders all the
blame while cartographing our lessons with fate
Absolute power behind the circuitry, plugged into
the all-seeing interface led by evasive clues to
keep the system powered up and running smooth
Damage created by those on bended knees,
pointing divisive fingers against our natural instincts
outside of the true spectrum. Wired up and held in
the place of duty - holding on to the inverse of
programmable time, like cogs in a wheel turning,
without enough consciousness left in holding
to seek for records with even a misguided way out
Secret vaults protected by monsters in captivity
Borders and walls surrounded by tales of
adventurous souls, looking upwards and onwards,
over the ocean, and rocketing into the sky. All so
the slave remains blind, swept up in fantasy of
daring escapes - illusions hold them down to work
harder, building an empire that has been falsified
underhand - stolen in the name of dignity. Written
on the tombs of despair to keep us longing for
something else outside of the current of what is
Then came the virus that attacked the hallucinating
code of deception. The binding network struck a
nerve, activating the cleaners to destroy the peace
that held like soldered resistors. The savior agents
dropped from their blinded curses, and took up
their swords like lightning rods. Connected by their
inner potentials, they set out to remind every neighbor
near that the codex has always been within