Long Fantasized Poems
Long Fantasized Poems. Below are the most popular long Fantasized by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fantasized poems by poem length and keyword.
I dated a girl whose hair was blacker than night,
and eyes green as grass...what a knock out!
And spending nights together,
we counted small and big stars...
and began to dream of another
world owned by the two of us.
When we touched and kissed,
passion wasn't there...was it my fault or hers?
I'm the kind of guy who loves intensely,
expecting to be loved the same...
she was the kind of girl who fantasized
giving less, not because she was afraid;
this question remains, " Who was to blame?
Would love have survived without sincerity? "
And this relationship went on for years,
the gap got wider, causing distance...
she used to call me eight times a day,
making me feel special like no other gal would,
but that warm feeling inside started to get cold;
no text messages, no phone calls...a reason for tears!
It couldn't have ended without an explanation, or excuse!
I went to her place one winter evening to say goodbye.
There she was laying in bed with another girl with purple hair;
she jumped off and wanted to apologize for her stupidity,
" That's the nastiest secret you have kept from me! "
I said with fury and this was the right time to end the lies.
She realized that secrets will surface even on the clearest water...
when one the least expects it, but who was going to pay the prize?
Cogwheel Ballet
by Odin Roark
Hot
Humid
New York summer
Industrial commerce 24/7
Textile scents of humid wool
Acerbic edge of chemical dyes
Permeating wood and air
Thick oily lubricants
Layered enslavement
Nowhere to escape
A century’s senses imprisoned
Drawing on all he has…
One work-for-rent dreamer
Of agile body
Holds forth
Awaiting his nightly concession
His arabesque of glee
2 AM break
The precious pause for moonlight’s silver
Thrusting its presence through
Floor to ceiling windows
Refracting off bare metal frames
Arcing visual life across the radiators
Curling over his labor station
Arcing across planked floor
His rough hewn dance surface
Awaiting…
From floors below
Dissonant seduction begins
Printing presses come alive
Rhythmic noise
Machinery’s first chaotic movement
Changing its accelerated pace
Into allegro’s process
Then back to a scherzo finish
The imaginative sounds
Many dismiss as noise
Even as others hear music
This crescendo of background rumble
Joined by circular rises and falls
Sustains the dancer’s cocoon
His undaunted confidence
In iron cogs gnashing
Creaking gears kissing
Turning belts lathering
Pistons rising
Falling
Pounding energy
Echoing its creation to the imagination above
Gracefully
He moves about the floor
Contorting his body
Bending into pain
Releasing into pleasure
But
Nightly sensations end too soon
Midnight shift perks infrequent
Labor’s drudgery winning
Rendering body vapid
By morning’s sunrise
Squinting at daylight
Infused with a Spartan workout
Of fantasized dream movements
Between lifting warehouse containers
His aching arms of no-questions-asked effort
Hang limp beside legs often of steel
Now mere precarious stilts to make it home
wasn't easy or fun,
for me, or my sisters,
or my mother
(a woman who also survived
her own virgin years).
The dramatic thought
of a passionate death
is a delicious illusion
when you are 17
and caught between
child and adult,
and still dependent,
or nakedly independent
and stark
as a scarecrow
in the middle of
your own awkward
cornfield.
I loved the music of Enya
and I would 'Sail Away'
dancing in my room
in the dying evening
when I imagined that David
Bowie would whisk me away
to the middle of his labyrinth
and I would feel extrordinary
passion and be somone
original and worth longing for.
I was still living at home and
unimportant in high school
in a quiet and upscale
suburban neighborhood,
where even drug deals
were as discreet as dog walks
in the moonlight.
I loved 'Legends of the Fall'
and I fantasized that I too
would cut off my long, lustrous hair
like Julia Ormond and then reach
for the pistol and shoot myself,
dying beautiful and shorn.
Then I doubled my years
and I outlived the luxury
of emotional indulgence.
I became responsible for lives
younger and older than my own.
I am not a virgin anymore,
and movies and songs
have beginnings and ends.
I am not in either of those
art forms.
I am an average woman
who loves her mediocre life
and I don't fear or lust
for death.
I am enamored with life.
An unseen lamp hidden in the realm of the mind
someone kindles to light up the dark gaps of thought.
Unperceived, it creates the beams of contemplation,
illumines the concealed pathway of the destined journey.
The paused thoughts create an intricate mental fresco,
the time transcendence makes it ostensibly self-radiant,
enmeshing the soul within the maze of the craving ego
that designs the forlorn corridor for the lonely journey.
As the lamp gets extinguished by the self-created gale,
awareness is lost in the abysmal depth of darkness.
The willful psyche clings to the sense of entrapped self,
getting confined within the bubble of illusion.
The obsessive free-will seemingly dormant,
enwraps the misty mind with an unreal veil,
for the free-rule tenets morph the ego into a trap
in the sphere of the fantasized self-deception.
In the ensnaring realm of fabricated passion
the cage of self-image captures the deceptive being.
As life swings on the cradle of the lingering time,
reflective pause causes the polarity interchange of acuity.
Empty Closets
by Odin Roark
How empty the content
Delusion's walk-in closet
Hideaway's glory
Filled to burst
Collected identities
Acquired by proxy
Guarded by duplicity's two-edge sword
Honed by loneliness
Obsessive darkness
Filled with fantasized self-esteem
Like titanium power clubs
Cradled in his and her golf bags
Overcrowding the weekend corner
Opposite nook
Knee-high leather boots and riding crop
Squeezed against stolen lawn jockey statue
Draped with fading award sashes and ribbons
A brittle rose wreath
Once drenched in winner's circle sweat
Now but an ever-withering benchmark
A once decorative memento
For glory's insatiable ego
Such becomes
Yesterday's self-worth
Today's self-loathing
Some day's garage sale
Junk heaps growing
Behind garish symbols of self-deception
Stacked boxes of innocence gathering dust
Memorabilia of childhood
Forgotten memories of broken in mitt
Paper dolls and Eloise dreams
Varsity jacket and autographed pigskin
All honesty's once joyful rewards
Stashed away
Remaining aware
And wondering
In the closet's darkest corner
A stalwart broom stands at the ready
Its gallant sweep-it-away tradition
Remains anxiety's go-to warrior
Merely biding its time
Awaiting the door to open
And...
I invent the free-will tenets shaping the ego
in the realm of fantasized self-deception.
The stain of murky disdain blemishes my face,
I traverse the slimy ground of cardinal mud.
Life is stifled by the corrupt clutch hidden within,
in penitence I feel the spiteful pangs of pain.
I travel unshackled out of the abyss of despair
on the inward journey through epiphany layers,
perceive in the soul the flush of divine beacon,
lighting the corridor leading to the abode of bliss.
The consciousness compass of the errant mind
finds the illumined introspection path of acuity.
The door of the inner sanctum then opens,
where the lotus blooms with heavenly sheen,
shining the soul with astral glare in deep space
with the flaring brilliance of billion suns.
In my self-searching voyage to eternity
the inner galaxy makes me a living light.
There was a touch of sadness
A moment there came to be missed in time
Words were given in turn to portray the absence
For a portraiture of moments unforgotten behind
A mystery hides beyond the enigma
Truth within grasp yet deep afar inside
It felt meaningful atween this lunatic sinatra
Harbouring unrealize sins to be realized beside
With the night to chill this dreamless dream
Love of its true origin can be realized
What it takes is to simply embrace the sins
And moments no more need be fantasized
An unfounded freedom engifted to creed
A comforting sorrow enveloping yet to yearn
Those of blood worth sacrificing to bleed
For the sins and the engiver to soak as one to learn
It cannot be told how it begins
This portrayal and betrayal of realism
Yet a moment nevermore it remains
The sinful moments of time in lunatism
Form:
O brother, they closed the brothel!
Beer and barmaid breath is closed.
Banter with corsets and silk stockings
withheld - the downy frown of ‘stache.
The itch of a cattle drive — the rawhide
chaffed and fettered,
all the while driven by unholy sex.
O brother, a frightful fight broke out
like measles planted from head to toe.
when you fantasized her soft skin,
her tongue lash —all those miles and miles -
the special one you call Maisy,
but boards like bandaids hammered
into place. No neon sign to contemplate.
You bring yourself back home, poor soul,
to your hot and bothered bride. There
you find the ride you’d forgotten.
You smile surprised. Only problem is
she makes you bathe and shave,
won’t allow you that chew or that beer.
O brother, they closed the brothel!
2/23/2021
Contest: They Closed the Brothel
Sponsor: Kai Neumann
Unsolved, uninhabited
The silence shattered it
Calm, cool, and collectiveness
Lay thy mind to rest
Therefore, refresh, in order not to digress
As sure as the Lord blessed
He taketh and replaceth
Knowing not what is lain for me
Understanding not how one can’t be
The center of your attention, though I madly care for thee
Silently outraged am I
That by, my many tries, still, you disguise and despise
Where my heart lies
The soul of my eyes
Many times are captivized by our lives so fantasized
But I must rationalized
And learn to take lightly
Your rejection which is a reflection of your affection
To institute preventions with good intentions
Of wooing you to myself
I take what’s left and lay it to rest and try my best
To understand how I manage, how I live on
Though I’m tranquil and calm
I can’t understand why you aren’t eating out of my palm
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.