Long Fault Poems
Long Fault Poems. Below are the most popular long Fault by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fault poems by poem length and keyword.
The cartographer of lost hours
works in a room where time loosens
in uneven strands,
as if the day itself were fraying
from some quiet corner.
Maps crowd the walls~
not arranged, just pinned wherever
a moment insisted on being remembered.
They sketch the places
where sorrow bent the light a little sideways,
where joy flickered
in that fragile way brightness does
when it isn’t sure it belongs,
and where silence gathered
in the leftover spaces
of days that never quite finished themselves.
Each hour becomes a country
with borders shaped by longing,
its rivers carved
from the ache of almost.
Mountains ascend
from the heaviness of words left unsaid,
their edges catching
the cold breath of a day
that never quite finished forming.
The cartographer moves slowly,
sometimes doubling back
as if the memory they’re tracing
shifted under their hand.
Their fingers follow the fault lines
of vanished afternoons,
mapping the subtle change left behind
by a voice that once warmed the air
like dawn leaning toward the horizon
but not quite reaching it.
On the largest map,
a constellation of hours glows faintly~
soft green-gold sparks
marking the places
where time paused
to listen to its own quiet.
The ink stirs
as though recalling
the shape of what was nearly remembered,
then settles again,
as if unsure.
When the cartographer finishes,
they lift the map carefully,
not with reverence
but with the kind of caution
reserved for fragile things
that have already survived too much.
The lost hours gather there~
luminous, uneven,
each one a small country
where memory still walks
with bare feet.
In the quiet that follows,
the map brightens~
a soft, opal-bright glow
revealing the truth
time never learned to hide:
the hours you thought were gone
were simply waiting
for someone patient enough
to find them.
Time has brought us forward
We no longer fear our words
Connections made
Flowing in different directions
Where our words can teach us more
Feeling comfortable together
Each of us contributing
Poetic conversations
There is so much to tell about our lives
About other people, our frightened child within
A lifetime has come before us
There are still lifetimes to be lived
Now that we are connected
There is so much to share
A million stories
With our beloved friends
The connection has always been there
It was a matter of flipping a switch
Words are our instrument
They help us scratch the itch
Directions to be navigated
We never know just where we'll go
Like a roller coaster
Going fast and going slow
Secret passages through our lives
With our words we can express
They connect us to this world
So that others we may bless
With other children, of the mind
Our tapestry is formed
Under a blanket of emotion
Together we are warmed
My mom sent me part one this morning with the note below.
"This is your fault, I all of a sudden want to say stuff that I never
thought of saying before. How weird is that?"
We are witnessing the birth of a poet. I love you mom.
Mama bear Rocks!
Self sabotage.
War in house. Front row seat.
Do you think I have not been here before?
I conversate politely with the
Girl in the mirror.
Is the assumption a lack of intelligence
or a lack of experience on my part?
my fault.
my laugh, musical. pained.
I am slipping again and craving pain.
Thinking of oozing wounds, picking scabs from hurtful things.
Again, my mind demands.
like pressing on a fresh bruise or the
first shower after a flesh wound.
Salting a paper cut.
Impulsively yearning.
Give it to me. The pain.
smiling and hungry I will lick love from a knife blade.
unhealed. gut clenching, head spinning—
Something inside whispers
you cannot hurt me.
Something in me smirks. satisfaction sinister & stomach twisting.
I know what this is. familiar.
To punish myself for believing I was better
is my blessed offering to lies.
On a midnight walk, saint of feigned stability,
I realize, in my head I have been dead for centuries.
tears streaming lungs heaving my soul was never born innocent, never born at all.
blind & lost, in danger, internal. back against an interior wall
Should I go?
Again. I am here again.
disbelief. I laugh at the expression on my own face through silent sobs
“I’m not ill”
Am I slow?
I've asked for quite a while
Everything I do
Always seems peculiar
A minor fault in the way I'm perceived
I felt left out
My words
My thoughts
My expressions
They were different from others
I thought hard and well
Though not quite like the rest
Processing seemed hard for me
A slow dismantling of how I was taught to think
Like i needed time
I felt I was ok
The environment didn't think so
I got quiet and awkward
Loud and talkative
Not quite like the others
Like I was always the opposite
Stares from all angles
Emotions I couldn't understand at that age
In my way of life
My writing
My advice
It was twisted
No one seemed to understand
Only the villains in pages
I lived in reverse
I wanted friends
But we didn't have the same ideals
I was approached
I seemed different they said
Not like them quite enough but funny to be around
Like a comic relief
I want to change
Or maybe find the right people
The Lies of Divorce
The truth of facts,
lost over time,
by the deceit of repetitive
misstatements...
also known as; lies.
He put me on the ground.
He yelled at me.
Yet, I am the one at fault.
Our daughter believes,
all she was taught,
at the foot and knee of a mirror.
The greater the enhanced
recognition of his implied power,
the overall tolerance
for things spoken incorrectly
at first,
while drifting into
complete darkness at whim.
He took his son's blanket,
in the parking lot and laughed.
He took his crayons,
and threw them into the fire.
Just to watch the colors,
melt and burn together,
while the screams of the innocent,
sang...
The depths of your unconscious actions,
are only ever so much lower,
nearly unmeasured.
Hate was your mantra,
a game played with the lives of our children,
still echoing into their patterns,
set to be changeless.
The truth ever grows in a place,
watered daily, and given prayer.
The form of which takes hope,
to a new realm,
that can not be shattered,
or stolen.
The jig you follow,
up and down, a puppet on a string,
for a darker thing.
I pity your displacement,
of what is important,
to the world...
inclusive of all that has life,
and will continue to breathe.
Let me read this to you...
as I know that will fire the flame.
Let me speak it clearly,
so there is no shame.
I forgive you.
You're as mean as a Grizzly Bear and you think that I'll marry you.
Get that notion out of your head because it's something I won't do.
You're so mean and vicious that you actually broke your own daughter's arm.
You injured her when you were supposed to protect her from coming to harm.
You actually believe that you and I will be man and wife.
I loathe you and I sure as hell don't want you in my life.
When you were only seventeen, you were arrested for aggravated assault.
You've spent over a decade in jail for your crimes and it's entirely your fault.
Getting your daughter put in a foster home is what I'm going to do.
Loving you would be like loving a rattlesnake and I'll never marry you.
(This is a fictional poem)
In my limited opinion, Maya Angelou is, and was thee best poet I have ever read in my 80 years of life thus far. She spoke to my heart with each line. And Still I Rise, is me too a fault. I feel she wrote that poem, especially for me. I have read others by her, but their titles escapes me because of my memory for names. I believe "And Still I Rise," may have been her last I'm not sure, however, this poem is me all the way. I'm sorry I never got the chance to meet her personally. But we didn't need to meet. The poem said it all.
This would be something I would say in a message to her were she still alive. "We didn't meet in person, but you know me all so well. I don't know if its the struggle or plight of Black people. However, many of us seem to fit the criteria. You were born to never be forgotten and your poetry proves that. Thank you for your thoughts and phrases." Love, Marilyn Williams.
To end, in the beginning of my childhood, I must admit I didn't like poetry. Until one day someone handed me a book, years later, about the subject, and I have been running with it ever since.
L-earn to say sorry,
O-r express polite regret;
R-ecognize your fault,
E-nd the pain, let the other forget.
L-earn to say sorry,
I-n your heart be sincere;
E-very wrong that you've done causes a drop of tear.
T-o say sorry needs courage,
O-ne has to be humble;
R-espect another's feelings,
R-unning away from trouble.
E-ach word one whispers must not bring blue or gray;
S-o often people fail badly, sorry seems hard to say,
B-e meek and moderate
E-nough to ask for forgiveness;
L-owly and mild manner
M-akes one free from mess.
O-n the first day of July,
N-o time for you to disagree;
T-ry to implore the Lord,
E-arnestly learn to say sorry.
I suppose the blows from
your dark fist gets softer
with time spent running
for my life I mean your
face seems to fade a little
bit more when I’m sitting
in mass or singing in the
choir tears always roll just
thinking how god must’ve
felt watching you blungeon
my back always my back
remember you rushed behind
pretending you were giving me
a big hug and brutally crushed
my chest with your bare hands
what a gifted batterer watching
my injured breastbones pertrude
on my sides but twisting my
arm was the worse only because
I got to see the way your tongue
hung your mouth like you were
working on a car trying to remove
a stubborn bolt when a loud pop
there you got it my arm hung like
slinky the blows I suppose are a
bit lighter now overtime I mean
useful tips tea bags dark glasses
I still have no feeling in the dent
in my back where that giant stone
landed my doctors treated with
gauze cellulitis infection nerve
damage I always felt the blow’s
should someday become a bit softer
over time I never waited around
to see your response not the
last time I fled it finally sunk
in that you was actually going
to kill your wife if I stayed it
would be my fault that you
murdered your own wife
I would be the blame for my
own murder so I ran and ran
even today I look over my
broken shoulder wondering
which one of my broken bones
or bruises were your most
triumph which one of my broken
bone made you feel the most
victorious over me which blow
made you feel like the champion
wife beater I’m numb wondering
what’s goes through your mind
after seeing me broken bruised
by your powerful fist crippled
emotionally weeping disabled
afraid clutching my children
tell me how tell me true just
how would you rate your most
famous most memorable blows
With my pen I operate my skin
Unveiling my within yes my scheme
In agony and pain boiling as steam
From my veins multiples of stream
flowing in style with rhythm
My hearty wounded is made plane
My grief visible to read though make rain
This message gushing out buy me more time
I shed tears not for the pain but the vain
I let the tide flow with the reading
and just not to fault this feeling
I make sure on each line is a teaching
to a depressed soul an epitome of healing
in its own way of dealing
Such cruise has only been within
A balm of relief to the stressed out
A source of belief to the called out
A backbone to strengthen the feeble
and wise counsel to the troubled,
cheering up the ruffled and enlightening the ignorant
a war song boosting morale to victory.