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.
Can you try your luck at something in a video game?
Try as many times you can, before you inevitably explode?!
In unrelenting anger?!!
Especially if you were one step away from the feeling of supremacy, but
joined the fallen from one clever AI.
Welcome to the world of first-person rage. Make sure you don't equip stronger weapons if you want to keep self-bragging rights when you finally accomplish everything on THAT level.
Because if you can't take the difficulty then you have no right to bear the arms awarded by fictional army men and women.
How stubborn are you to beat this level?
How stubborn was I? Stubborn enough to feel the letdown when trying again the next day.
And when I finally heard the sounds of "Mission Complete", I couldn't breathe a sigh of relief any harder than I did right then and there.
Now I put down the controller, and wait for my next cold crushing challenge.
And one day
Out of the blue I wondered,
about those million little sacrifices that have been made
Because of which, the desires burning inside
Had no option other than to fade
How many times, the times not liable to be counted
must have a young mind came to a standstill
Barricading his thoughts,
On something so rare
Just to complete his leftover tasks, which are materialistic
Leaving behind the poem on his mind
Ohh dear tactless world, he's an Altruistic!
And how many times, the times not liable to be counted
must have a young hand come to a standstill
Dwindling hands, resisting hard
Something so pure
Just to complete his leftover tasks which are materialistic
Leaving behind the tune he discovered
Being constrained by time, he's an Altruistic!
Be it a poem or be it a self made tune
Be it a song or be it a tarot card displaying fortune
Be it a book or be it an art occupying whole room
Since the time immemorial,
A young artist always came to a standstill
Barricading his soul devoured by an art
Be it music, poetry, or fictional heart!
Being at the superior, yet all these are not at the start
Cause, there exists this tactless world
Powered by possessions materialistic
Making the inhabited souls an absolute altruistic
Altruistic ,for the deeds not worth deserving
And so, we never reached that threshold
where, the greatest films of all times would be made
The greatest songs of all time would exist
Not just for a while,
but for the time immemorial,
All the greatest art forms would persist!
As someday those buried masterpieces would be found
Under the same sky or maybe under the grave
As somewhere there must be a trace
that no one could easily erase
Indicating the beginning of that phase
Where young minds need not to be an altruistic
Need not to be a materialistic
But, SOLE SELFISHLY ARTISTIC!
Oh beloved of mine,
Soon time shall no longer be a companion of ours,
as the journey ends, our destination remains unclear.
You would always say my words are my gift,
so I leave these for you;
the love poem, I never quite expressed.
I remember my first glance, as you sat all alone.
Not a cloud in subtle sapphire horizons,
yet your forlorn face, only saw overcast skies,
as rain poured through your eyes, onto your somber smile.
It was the first day I prayed to God,
pleading for a rainbow to brighten your day.
But then I wonder if you were the treasure,
waiting for me at the end.
We became passengers on the pilgrimage of love,
composing symphonies our hearts had never felt.
Pledges and promises set the foundations of our love story,
with chapters of smiles, tears, fears, kisses and near misses.
I had never noticed the stars, nor was I ever a poet,
till the day my soul inhaled your passionate spirit.
How blessed was I, to have shared devoted lyrics.
Although the music has ended, our songs breathe for eternity.
As I ponder, questioning why, about this and that,
things I should have said - things I should have done,
but It's too late, as darkness and silence will soon arrive,
accompanying deep sighs, lost within empty air.
These are my last words for you, my precious diamond,
you will always sparkle for me, even after our last goodbye.
Silent One
9 December 2018
A fictional poem. Example for the Last Letter to my Beloved contest.
(This is a fictional poem)
I modified my ham radio and it started picking up transmissions from outer
space.
I heard aliens say that they were sending a fleet to enslave the human race.
I tried and tried to warn people but all they did was laugh.
Every person on Earth soon felt these aliens wrath.
They arrived and they enslaved everyone soon after.
Now there's no joy allowed in the world and no laughter.
Obeying these alien dictators is the only purpose that we serve.
I wish all of these alien scumbags would die like they deserve.
They have only one eye and they're large and green.
They have razor sharp claws and teeth and they really are mean.
The people didn't have enough time to defend the Earth because they didn't
listen to me.
If they would've listened, the human race might be free.
Form:
(This is a fictional poem)
My cousin and I went camping one weekend during the summer.
We thought it would be fun but it was a bummer.
I forgot to bring toilet paper so I had to use pinecones and it really hurt.
Our tents had no bottoms in them so we had to sleep in the dirt.
When my cousin was taking a dump, a bear bit off a big chunk of his butt.
I asked him if he was having a good time and he kicked me in the nuts.
When we decided to leave, we had to take a taxi because my car wouldn't start.
We had eaten nothing but beans and the taxi driver kicked us out because he
couldn't stand our farts.
We wanted to experience some nature because we thought it would make us
tougher men.
We had to walk all the way home and we swore never to go camping again.
Form:
Twelve years ago I developed a taste for booze.
I wouldn't have started if I'd known what I'd lose.
When I drank, I abused my wife and my kids as well.
Drinking destroyed my life and now life is pure hell.
I lost my wife, my children and even my career.
Life lost all meaning and it drives me to tears.
I still remember the day when I was fired by my boss.
I hit rock bottom and decided to get off the sauce.
I got help by going to AA.
But I'd already lost everything, I'd seen better days.
When people abuse alcohol, they never win.
I promise that my alcoholic days are at an end.
(This is a fictional poem but reality for some people. If you have a drinking problem, please get help.)
(This is a fictional poem)
I'm a country boy and I eat a lot of beans.
I've gotten so fat that I'm about to bust right out of my jeans.
The problem with eating lots of beans is that it makes me fart plenty.
I don't know how many times I fart each day, I'd say about twenty.
If I'm with someone else, I always pass the blame.
I farted while I was at a restaurant with my girl and I said "Sally, you should be
ashamed."
I fart over ten thousand times each year.
My stinky farts have finally caused me to lose my friends just like I feared.
I went to a doctor and begged him to tell me how to stop farting and how to lose
my big gut.
He said "Stop eating so many beans you idiot."
Form:
Bhut Jolokia coin, loud and side
she smiled
moving toward speaking
the extended metaphore
of rain.
involve a glide from one vowel sound
to another vowel sound
all within the same syllabylle
to another within the same syllable
(like "oi" in "coin", where the cenrity of
the composer and the lyricst are
combiined in the effect to convey the right means
to display both talent and skill.
gold mined from the caves
and the gold from the streames are
same where the smelters combine then to
make the jewlery we favor.
Lodes and placer gold
from stream and vein
smeltered into coins. She said smiling.
From the BZook Keystone Gold Drop
a Fictional story about six Tribes and Seven Historains that
find a large amount of Gold They need
to find the deed to Property to claim the gold
but the Society that holds the deed
wants the Gold holders to
be contested through a game
where she insists a ghost
would be the one to determine who gets the prize.
Filed Under Comedy.
BADSEEDPRESS is a fabricated enterprise.
Zoltan Goliath and Otis Trench are invented characters,
as are all the other players identified herein as having
had a role in the sweet soul seduction of this sad luck,
rum-soaked dame of a book.
The entire contents of this volume is the product
of the imagination of M. Kalavik. It was all his idea.
BADSEEDPRESS accepts no responsibility
for anything other than words on a page,
but we would like to thank the many sponsors
whose advertisements have acted as fertilizer
spread among the lyrical furrows of this fictional funny farm.
Without their support, this project might not have been thought possible.
We’re all just in it for the money.
Brent Scorn
Non-attorney Spokesperson
BADSEEDPRESS
The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof.
They scream, laugh, make love, declare the infiniteness
Of their finite existence through diatribes of reality and unreality.
They are passionate bunch,
Bound by their common desire to be. And blood.
And the house just is. It still is.
Once there were sparrows in the ventilators.
And envious swallows on the palm trees.
The ripples in the pond sing their dark, merry tunes
Licking away its edges,
And they shove and trample for the whiff of north wind.
Life persists in slow, lonely decadence.
The cactus on the roof thrives in monsoon and in summer.
Basil live and die, live and die trenched in the never ending circle
Of micro-civilisation.
The house harvests its own sustenance in the whispers among its bricks
That become a collective
And a roar is heard.
They pray to Earth.
The old house is defiant,
The old house is tired.
Its melting skin sizzles and stinks of industry of old,
A glorious past always in the distant like the horizon,
The promise of bright future exposed to the misery
That is naturalness of time.
The hammer rusted, weed has grown over,
They clinch onto the sickle, like oxygen.
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Form: Free Verse
Date: 02 / 11 / 2016
Growing up in a state of the country where all the magnificence is limited to either history books or fictional literature, one hopes for something more. This is definitely a political reflection than anything else, but 'the house' is not just a metaphor, it does exist, and so do the people living in it.