Long Fictional Poems
Long Fictional Poems. Below are the most popular long Fictional by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fictional poems by poem length and keyword.
(This is a fictional poem)
When I had to have a heart transplant, I didn't know that my new heart would
break.
The pain may eventually go away but there's no telling how many years it might
take.
My old heart went bad and I needed a new one.
The reason that I'm in so much misery is because my new heart came from my
son.
My boy was only sixteen and noone should die at that age.
Now life is very hard because of my pain and rage.
He was riding his motorcycle when he hit a car head on.
I couldn't stop crying when I learned that he was gone.
People urge me to go on with my life but I don't think that I can.
I may have a strong and healthy heart but this experience has left me a broken
man.
My wife begged me not to buy our son that motorcycle but I bought it anyway.
Now this guilt will haunt me for the rest of my days.
When I think of how unfair it was for him to die, it really makes me mad.
He was a good kid while he lived and I was always proud to be his dad.
Form:
(This is a fictional poem)
You're really pissing me off because you think this is a library instead of a store.
If you're not going to buy my magazines, I don't want you looking at them anymore.
Unless you're going to buy the magazine, I want you to put it back.
If you give me the finger one more time, I'll give you a hard smack.
Yesterday a guy took a Playboy in the bathroom because he thought I wouldn't
mind.
He was in there for a good thirty minutes and when he came out, he had gone
blind.
Now you're reading a fishing magazine that tells you how to catch bass.
You'd better put it back on the shelf right now or I'll kick your scrawny ___.
This isn't a library and that's something you'd better learn.
I've kicked a lot of people's _____ and now it's your turn.
Form:
The Quirkes of Success
Film Featuring stars
Fictional and enformative
Feature film Proposal
Exploits of Business
filmed in Cerro Gordo
a dipiction of business
and the exploits of capitalism.
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The story is that she got pregnant in the back of a cigerrette delivery truck. The driver is a vendor and deliver. His name is Paydraa, she named her daughter pavon, after the truck and father. Pavon is a fish.
We told her if she'd wish to change the name she could. She just smiled and said,'Oh the dreid tomatoes, the onion powder, garlic powder, I guess the lemon zest, yeah dried lemon zest.
some ground fritos and cheetos in mi flour mixture.aratio: ratio, change mi mixture! I so silly mi fish is mi fish! Instead she explored the option of naming him after the Ventana de Piedra in Argentina. The legend is told that a colony of farting ants ate the green and blue stems of these veggies, and since the saltine nature of the soil effected there waste it would turn the whole section of salinate matrail the color of the leaves that the ants had eaten. Over a million years the area had become crustilezed from the coloration of the ant turds. She named the Son, Ventuia Del Greeco. Who's nick name is "Red" or "Red Snapper".
I bought some cubain tobbacco seeds, some champenge grapes from france and
Japenese indigo. He talked to a man in the desert, he begged the man in the desert. He asked the man if he could name his product after the town that had been ghost up. He bought the MINING town and the ghostes, may have been the measurments in feets not metrical.Well they came up with Lolah's Cubain Cigars, Cerro Gordo's Ghost pepper sauce. They distill a dill and junipter seed and cream with bacon and anchoives. They put it in bottles that looked like liquer bottles, this was a distill sauce for cooking. It was yuck as a drink, but great as a marinade.. They grew indigo in the caves as a joke. they harvested it as a joke. Te manufacted it in corousety. They sold it as a joke and prospered joking about there hunch.
(This is a fictional poem)
You are a jerk and you have a lot of nerve.
You got food poisoning which is what you deserved.
You stole twenty eggs out of my hen house.
You did it because you are a cheap louse.
The eggs turned out to be rotten and you regretted eating that food.
When you had your stomach pumped, you sued.
That damn judge awarded you a quarter of a million dollars.
He found me in contempt of court when I cussed and hollered.
I had to sell my farm and give you the money.
When I get my hands on that judge, he won't think it's so funny.
You're wearing great clothes because Armoni is your tailor.
You're living high on the hog while I'm living in an old abandoned trailer.
Form:
(This is a fictional poem)
After I watched that Lindsay Lohan movie, I bought a 1963 Bug.
When I tell people my story, they say I'm either stupid or on drugs.
I bought the Bug last month on the twelfth.
It's very irritating because it won't drive by itself.
I know that Bugs can drive by themselves because I've seen all of the Herbie
movies.
But when I complained to the car dealer, he called me a loony.
I put the key in the ignition and told my Bug to drive.
He just sat there silently like he wasn't even alive.
My Bug won't drive, he won't even honk his horn.
I know my car can drive, he's just being stubborn.
People say that Bugs can't drive by themselves but I know they can.
I needed some answers so I went to visit Lindsay Lohan.
I asked her why did her Bug drive and mine remain stationary.
She said I creeped her out and that my visit was quite scary.
She made her dogs attack me and they nearly tore me to shreds.
She said the problem isn't my Bug, the problem is what's in my head.
Form:
In the safe refuge of lyrical poetry, I cocooned.
My broken shards fell on a tear-stained screen.
I am the one who steers my own route attuned.
With every brushstroke, many specks are seen.
My broken shards fell on a tear-stained screen.
A flawed creation leaves footprints in the sand.
With every brushstroke, many specks are seen.
On a dying star, view the last rays of a light band.
A flawed creation leaves footprints in the sand.
A sorrowfulness may discharge excess perfection.
On a dying star, view the last rays of a light band.
A quivering waltz into the pert halls of reflection.
A sorrowfulness may discharge excess perfection.
Perception releases a melody into the devil's lair.
A quivering waltz into the pert halls of reflection.
Too spry to chase metaphorical kaleidoscope air.
Perception releases a melody into the devil's lair.
A rescuer in the shape of stanchions in the storm
Too spry to chase metaphorical kaleidoscope air.
Sieved in mellifluous rhythm exotic in fictional form.
A rescuer in the shape of stanchions in the storm
Worlds slamming silently into a moonless ocean.
Sieved in mellifluous rhythm exotic in fictional form.
I grasp best in the gloom, smell, passion, and devotion.
Worlds slamming silently into a moonless ocean.
As moths to flame, poetry keeps me alive in my dream.
I grasp best in the gloom, smell, passion, and devotion.
Jaded lack of past, present, and future is my stream.
As moths to flame, poetry keeps me alive in my dream.
As the world, alternate contractures and bruising.
Jaded lack of past, present, and future is my stream.
I'm simmering, burning, splashing, and fusing.
As the world, alternate contractures and bruising
I am the one who steers my own route attuned.
I'm simmering, burning, splashing, and fusing.
In the safe refuge of lyrical poetry, I cocooned.
Written: December 2nd, 2022
Until 1934 I was a barber, that used to be my profession.
Many people are suffering because of this Great Depression.
A Gangster walked into my shop but when he left, he had to be carried.
He was responsible for many deaths and I made sure that he was buried.
I usually don't brag but this time I love to gloat.
That punk asked for a shave and I slit his throat.
He dealt in Prostitution, Gambling, Booze and Heroin.
I made sure that he couldn't do anything illegal again.
I'm not ashamed of myself even though I lost my freedom and my wife.
I saved people from that animal and a judge sentenced me to life.
I'll be locked up for the remainder of my years.
I don't regret what I did, my conscience is clear.
(This fictional poem takes place in the 1930s.)
Senor's wealth management...
battered pinata like
Yours truly courtesy servitude
tethered existence suffers neck
brunt of yoke
fiscal recklessness got me woke
within cosmic schema,
a mere infinitesimal speck.
Insolvent crisis principally bespoke
interestingly enough
caught me off balance
sudden pennilessness
(dollar short/ day late dada)
analogous to vice grip
stranglehold doth choke
coffers emptied
willy-nilly Okey doke
colorblindness
fundamentally governed me
into zombified state
thus another plaintive plea
I repeatedly, lamely, and feebly evoke
meaning remuneration welcomed
courtesy altruistic generosity, magnanimity
and philanthropy humble
anonymous Lake Woebegone folk
ideally Norwegian bachelor farmers
to alleviate fiasco from fiendish
fraudsters frazzled father.
In plain (Schwenksville speak)
broken English,
I fell prey to hustlers
audacious, ferocious, malicious,
voracious, zealous tricksters,
who stealthily found entry
into my Macbook Pro
and locked computer screen
with threatening implication
security of mine private domain
awash with byte size bits
of valuable information
at risk of being tampered
with or obliterated.
Analogous to eminent domain of yore
mine digital terrain
manifest destiny meant war
virtual flesh and blood
regarding these lovely bones
yours truly gussied up
as chargé d'affaires
sent on risky (business) dutiful tour
to inflict comeuppance on him
who rendered me poor
as a Unitarian Church mouse,
plus I recruited
offspring of one of countless
related German Shepherd dogs
featured in fictional stories
on film, radio and television,
who starred as Rin Tin Tin reincarnate
belonging to elite K9 Korp
receiving unexpected support
courtesy end of gum
(cryptic message for ye
to chew on) sympathizers
voluntarily boosted success
at recouping major financial setback
my morale viz extempore.
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba, ba, blackishly wishing I was right as rain.
Words accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken my sheepish heartbeat
Yet I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to what other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain draining
as my barnyard thoughts are straining
I can’t translate what they’re saying.
It sounds to much like blah blah complaining.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep
into the darkness we’re destined to creep.
Sad sadistic secrets you’ve burdened us to keep
So we push our charred thoughts way down deep,
as we travel paths dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing us weep.
While I admire fleece as white as snow.
I’m not inclined to go where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe just because they travel slow.
The True Shepherd wouldn’t lead them to and fro
I listen to my uneasy queazy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba, to the slaughter they go.
For Wow Me Poetry Contest entered August 26, 2019.
Written August 21, 2019
Re-entered in John Hamilton’s N/A contest
I'm angry and I'm in a great deal of distress.
I have learned that my wife is a murderess.
We've had four babies, two sons and two daughters.
By the time she was through, all four were slaughtered.
I didn't know she was killing them, I thought they died of SIDS.
I am both shocked and horrified because of what my wife did.
I knew that it was murder when we lost baby number four.
I couldn't stay with that woman so I walked out the door.
It was so hard for me to accept the truth.
I would go to the cops but I have no proof.
What really angers me is that she shows no remorse.
I'm free of her, I'm in the process of getting a divorce.
She needs to get help but sadly, she will not.
If she remarries and kills another baby, I hope that she gets caught.
(This is a fictional poem.)