Long Frays Poems
Long Frays Poems. Below are the most popular long Frays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frays poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep breath
Let it out, carry the blight
Another ... remember the mantra
It is NOT a reflection of my worth - ever
This imbalance, this favoritism ... yet ...
I work tirelessly, intensely
I scrape the walls of my spirit
Wring the drops of creativity from my core
Burn the pulpy paragons of my aim and acumen
All in the efforts to weave the finest fabric from phrase
To spin wonder from words and will
To affect the deepest emotion and imagination and ire
Simply by the ordering and placement of letters on a page
It is my passion - my craft
And I take nothing more seriously
Or more joyously
And no matter how magical the end game
No matter what the fruit born of my most astute energies
I drown in a cipher sea
(And this is not a perspective of arrogance, but rather empirical reality)
Patches of rough-hewn fabric that frays at the edge
Shredded attempts at art and assignment
That are their own worst rags and remnants
But are held up as the golden standard of excellence
And, (I kid you not), wonders of the writing world
Simply because of the signature at the bottom
(And often, a fake one at that)
Though it fails me as to where that absurd accolade originates
Oh, to but query straight out, without reproach -
Where-oh-where, is the ripe in this refuse?!?
What is the redemption you find in these careless phrases?
Stuffy words stuffed into stuffy stanzas
All for the sake of feigned profundity
How can anyone possibly take such transparent text
For anything but mediocrity and mush?!?
Still, the endless comments of adoration ... at a loss
It is a weekly, daily, even hourly poison to my soul
Rending, ragged, my person and fertile prescience
Leaving my hands clenched and blue
My wit and whimsy tattered
My quill filled with blood
And my heart ... taxed and weary.
In midnight gazes call me sullen upon my cheek
Rousing replies risen bound by chains
Lest mercy be tallowed by all frays
Lest my cheek rise by an untimely hour
Rid my face of discoloured honour
Until it shall stalk by the wretched wicker sun's rays
O wither upon the wicker's sun dropped desire
Feign, o swell upon the imperious bells
Dear wicker, o ire, shalt rain upon the sinner's drencht trap
Leave mellow cleaves upon a skull's prondered fallows
O wicker, dear wicker, fall'n be the strife within my own trial
Ris'n upon a mellow moon's impassive scamp
A whore within such heavenly light, where'n quarry shalt seek a seeming clamp
Fought a feign, O swallow, O blossom by my might
Shalt the wicker sun swoon upon my sorrows?
O life, upon a liver, foreclose a killer
For soon i shall take upon flight
Until the sun's swollen wicker shall take upon the morrow
Shall anguish thrive upon a famisht howl
Come without breaks, nor bend
I shall steal upon the wicker's whelms
Towards the sways, o sorrow shall bend
Belier my helm, 'til all else shall fall hither
'Til I hear the moon call upon the wicker,
And I shall fly.
Another day, another ghostly glitch
The catholic church stained glass
shouldn’t be as grey as it was today.
More and more the molding frays
I can hear the coffins softy coughing
There are more and more mourning days
Whether or not there was better days,
“Back when there was no such a glitch”
there were still plagues, there was still coughing,
common enough, blood from esophagus glass
Our flesh still frays, it decays over time,
especially today.
I forgot to take my Lamictal today,
It is my second time forgetting, third day
without taking it. A ball of yarn beginning to fray,
my brain begins to glare and glitch.
Is there a hemorrhage born of broken glass?
Maybe I inhaled it in mass? I did a lot of coughing.
The psalms usually calming, all I heard was coughing
this morning. Something seems off today…
I stared at my reflection for too long, the looking glass
has sassed me back for many mourning days.
It’s not a glitch,
the flesh is flayed, the noose is frayed.
Always unsuccessful, its stressful, hair is frayed
into my hands. The same hands that caught me coughing
blood in the hospital in Philadelphia. It can’t be a glitch,
this has always been my reality, suffering is my software today.
It's a countdown, it's a matter of days
Until I am immortalized in pink and yellow glass.
It will say, “Here lies the Saint of Smoking Glass”,
I have tried to recover, but my brain stem was frayed,
and it snapped under pressure. No more mourning days!
No more pre funeral cigarettes! Interrupting eulogies
coughing like it was some sort of
awkward option! It’s not your time today!
You will feel it when you can feel the glitch.
Eye twitch, there's the glitch! I smoked too much glass…
It’s my last day today and I lived partially flayed
I can finally stop coughing.
I’ll see you on my mourning day.
A nation built on shards of captured light,
Demands a gate—a silhouette we keep in sight,
Where laws are carved by calloused, steady hands
To mark the brittle edge of shifting lands.
The law is not some distant, hollow plea,
But a substantiated pulse of a shared liberty;
Yet, for the weary souls who wait in line,
The border requires more than lines drawn by design.
When the boundary is breached
Without the word, or silent weight of trust,
The system frays—a tether worn to dust,
Where sovereign duty meets the breaking strain.
Our primary vow is quiet, simple sleep,
A promise held while the restless cities dream;
To turn away the sharpen’d hand of crime,
Tracing the threat before it finds its time.
No shadow should provide a hollow space
For those who seek to fracture or to bend,
For peace is harvested where justice clears
The fog of uncertainty from our streets and fears.
With measured breath and cold intent,
The iron message of the law is sent:
That those who bypass every guarded gate
Must face the turn, and meet their heavy fate.
To lift the burden, to clear the thickening path,
Without the bite of some aimless, frantic wrath,
We hold to what is true—
That old, weathered laws must be carried through.
For justice rests on uneven, honest ground,
Where the seeker is finally, quietly found,
Provided they walk the way
The statutes of the land convey.
Life seems to manifest itself more of me into a frown
Surrounded by the foreign and the indifferent
My heart pumps but for what? I feel like my soul is stuck in an endless strut.
I feel alone and trapped
Sorrowful and crap
My thoughts and pain don't matter to those around me
I'm just another person in their life
Another sinister stricken with strife
I'm just bitter and unhappy with life
But nobody cares why
Maybe one day I will be free from the hell I've found myself in
Maybe one day it will all make sense
This hellbound turtle shell I'm slowly crawling around in,
Waiting for the oceans current to sweep me up so I can drift away
Lead me to better shores and more memorable days
Feel the sun dawn and set on my face
But today I'm just a pale malformed image of the end time frays
Such is my darkened fate
ocean waves drift in
wildflowers bend in soft winds—
with gentle curves
soothing calm natural minds
without demands or burdens
curves of rivers' arcs
fractals etched in snowflake veins
caress weary eyes
while urban straight lines shatter—
reflection splinters apart
concrete towers thrust
the geometry of squares
clawing at the sky
every sharp angle pierces—
minds that shrink from the hardness
billboards blast their glare
sirens rip through noisy streets
ravaging the ear
urban harshness stunts the soul—
as chaos frays attention
forest silence hums
its calming hymn without words
restoring the peace
of treasure trove memories
stored away in its clearings
dawn's blush dusk's ember
are halos in sky above—
colorful milieus
that frames the day in colors
soft cuddly and welcoming
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Tacked across the window—it hangs askew.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
The reds all clash—they’re far from harmony,
But hey, it fills the space and hides the view.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Its threadbare pattern does not speak to me;
Much too common, and maybe that’s your clue—
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It’s not a work of art, and nothing’s free
From dust or frays. (Did I just spy some glue?)
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
And now I wonder why you let it be
The thing that guests first spot when they walk through.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It stabs my eyes, though I am rarely pleased,
A story’s just a string from old to new.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
ASP OF GRIEF
She buries her head upon this asp of grief —
soft with reptilian fangs, hard with poison.
Her covetous husband lies upon the Nile’s reef.
She holds her abdomen in her arms - his son.
with lunar belly...
the shape of her husband’s seed
...a fateful eclipse
The pit with its bone-chilling cold, hisses with hatchlings,
dreaming of spoiled seeds and seas with a vortex,
coiling around ships. A queen’s lips burn red, yearning for her king.
An abandoned wreck will not lay eyes upon his baby’s sex.
insanity’s kiss...
eyes burn with crimson lipstick
...unrepentant flames
She plays with sticks and desire, enticing asps of despair —
gorges with vampiric teeth. She embraces their mock
and likewise teases, beckons and pleads for death so fair.
Like a breeze about her ankles snakes snip her royal purple frock.
entanglement frays...
dyed purple threads unravel
...rigor mortis strikes
His candle ensign in the dark, a resurrected hero of vanity.
The light flickers with feet in the sand, footprints at lover’s leap.
His profile in death’s shadow, his purple passion of insanity —
laughter litters this carnivorous cave where ashes of dust heap.
alluring ashes...
Salome’s serpentine dance
...Cleopatra’s veils
The sound of a knife being sharpened, his sword with venom drawn,
leaps upon his self-righteous chest, a single blade’s deep penetration.
No handsomer lover, thighs of steel, tanned and craven brawn.
He lost his rapturous beauty bright and fleeting, weeds of veneration.
bilious-amber
mixes with his crimson blade
— a suicide pact
4/28/2018
Tabby Green is the most flexible, gymnastic- thinking cat.
We see his antics, and we laugh out loud good and fat.
A contortionist in the most elaborate, upside down ways.
Holding on tightly to our furniture filled with snags and frays.
Yesterday he hung upside down off of Gram’s potted ivy all day.
She was furious until he whisked all the Asian beetles away.
Next he was found on the pipes under the kitchen sink.
Mom forced him out of there after she got her drink.
He is swinging from a light fixture in the living room now.
Making some of us dizzy, and the dog bark “bow wow!”
Tabby Green is in line for the Olympics gymnastic team someday.
In the meantime, we get to watch this fine kitty play.
Restless nights and guarded days
chastise a heart that has strayed.
And vowing to mend your ways
past sins, await penance paid.
As the months morph into years,
pressures build, as nerves get raw.
And laden with fears and tears,
fantasies and dreams withdraw.
Empty lies shadow your past:
cast by promises pending.
And the years slip by so fast
that you fear your time's ending.
When trust is left to fate's whim
forever friendships break.
While passion's flame grows so dim,
Hope can't see past the heartache.
O'er the years, time's fabric frays,
failing to postpone old age.
And you're running out of days,
till you must exit life's stage.