Long Freeform Poems
Long Freeform Poems. Below are the most popular long Freeform by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freeform poems by poem length and keyword.
Men are like "asians" (-ation) not the ones from the far east, but the ones who fall weak.
The ones who seek validation through manipulation for their gratification somehow thinking they should get a congratulation for their uncertain manifestation.
The ones who play games like life is a play station, but fail to realize they create their own demise of this devastation.
Yet they colonize a civilization of hallucination for women to fall victim for their celebration.
Living in their own world of separation instead of integration as if we don't need one another for concentration.
Sad world we live in with these men.
Now don't get me wrong, not showing discrimination, women too can also be "asians" (-ation).
But this ain't about us, right now I'm on the men "asians" (-ation) with no hesitation.
We all should do some reevaluation in order to get some elevation, but before we do that, we have to come to realization not to bring aggravation to our generation.
Note: Reposted for my good friend John Hamilton who remembered I wrote this when I didn’t
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
There are two more parts to this poem. I will post the remaining tomorrow if any would care to read them. : )
When I think of you, I think of you as my color yellow.
Bright, beautiful, happy and drawing in like the sun. Your energy is captivating. Your love is warm and full, giving me a hug so tight and embracing not letting go.
I don’t want to let go and at times I seek shade.
The color of you will eventually fade but your light shines bright within my chest as it beats.
You are my living testimony of my favorite color. My favorite heat wave from the chemistry of our love on this earth exists.
Hydrogen and oxygen will never die down our fire. You are my sun, the light that I desire.
There is a leak I can’t seem to fix,
I called the technician,
but nobody came.
Feelings I’ve kept hidden for years
are pouring out,
bursting with intensity,
destroying the dam
I’ve spent a lifetime building.
My thoughts spiralling
in an endless vortex of misery
I cannot contain.
My heart weakened by sorrow,
burning with desire.
To speak my truth
is a battle between soul and ego,
my pride restricting my tongue,
sealing my lips in willed silence.
A veiled heart cannot be harmed,
vulnerable or exposed.
Yet this feeling of torture persists,
My truth seeping out slowly—
all in vain.
You’ve left me to waste away,
drowning in this puddle
of my own making.
Am i not worth recovery?
Wont you pull me out
and save me from myself?
Was our love not sweet enough?
Was my touch not warm enough?
Who do I have to be,
to be worthy
of the dream you sold me?
Dark.
Cool air breathing across my bed. Stomach in knots and a dull ache in my chest. Pressure rising in my throat, I can’t breathe.
Am I dreaming?
I gasp for air, jolting up from my bed. My familiar room, lit only from the glow of the bathroom light.
BUZZ.
A voicemail from an unknown number. The unrecognizable man’s voice telling me to call back immediately. I press call.
RING. RING.
The same masculine voice pierces through the speaker. We confirm the information and nothing could’ve prepared me for those next few words.
Life altering.
The kind of news that literally knocks all the air out of your body. Your dad, he’s deceased. My eyes grew blurry in an instant. Ringing started to fill my ears and unknowingly, I screamed.
Pain. Emptiness.
The echoing pulse deepened and expanding into this suffocating weight. Pounding through my head until it became unbearable. And this sharp, jagged feeling inside my chest. How can my dad really be gone?
Mute.
Questions unasked and answers left unspoken. Like a dark hole on a rampage, whirling around my core. My life on fast forward and my body stuck. Lodged in time. I open my mouth to speak, but the words never escape.
The abyss.
This agony, I feel it in every trace of my being. In every silence; in every fleeting moment, there’s still this echo of you.
Grief.
It’s literally love with absolutely no place to go. No one to share it with. Most days I still wake up feeling that void. Grieving can be loud, it can be quiet. It can be dancing to a song that reminds you of that person. It can be eating a tub of ice cream while crying, staring at old photographs. But me; I hear your voice still, like a whisper carried in the midnight breeze. Or your warmth; in the rays of sunshine that beam across my face. I’m holding onto all these memories; to paint the beautiful story of your life, for your four grandchildren. They’ll know about you; your gentle ways, they’ll know your name dad.
Open your eyes
Take a breath
Get out of bed
Get yourself dressed
Go to school
Talk to friends
Ignore the nagging feeling
Practice sports
Eat food
Don’t throw it up
Choke it down
Talk to friends
3rd period never ends
Think about life
Stop thinking about life
Walk to class
Study and stress
Volunteer
Extra work
Don’t fall behind
Honor grad
Grab your throat
Take a breath
Eat your lunch
Don’t throw it up
Talk to friends
Stress fever
Push it down
You don’t feel it
AP classes more and more
Don’t cry tears galore
Mama’s class
Sleep through it
You can speak
Swallow the glass
Loud noise
Small band
Your times in high demand
Get ready
Sports once more
Fail again
Again
Again
Go home
Eat food
Don’t let yourself puke
Do homework
Study more
Clean up
Do your chores
Take your pill
Toss and turn
Wake up
Open your eyes
I remember when my feet were smaller,
When my hair was longer,
When my dreams were bigger,
My smile brighter.
I remember when days did not start at Midnight,
When life didn’t feel like a big trap
Trapping me in a small cage,
Caging my innocence away.
I remember long summer days
When i thought love would save me,
When my thoughts were thoughts
And not gunshots,
When my hopelessness killed itself.
But it was replaced by sorrow and mourning and regret,
It was replaced by self loathing and double guessing and feeling insane;
‘Feeling like this would have gotten me lobotomised in the 50s’ I joke,
But then again an empty brain does not sound like a bad idea.
I remember picking chestnuts with my grandpa -it’s all dust now-
And feeling like myself for the first time,
And I remember having that taken away;
And I remember the laughter and the conversations,
And the tenderness,
And the screams and the bruises -I fell during P.E, mom-.
And I remember seeing the end, forever 15.
I don’t -I didn’t- remember many things
Back then,
Memories hit like a train wreck one day;
Flooding and drowning
And lighting that
First cigarette, first kiss,
Always cried afterwards, always apologetic;
The machines were so scary, they checked my brain.
‘Feeling like this would have gotten me lobotomised in the 50s’
They don’t want you to remember.
I was just sitting there writing when I saw her stroll in,
I wasn’t alone, all eyes followed those curves sashaying
as if she owned the place and maybe she did. . .
if a heart can skip a beat, mine did a somersault.
Obviously cut from a finer cloth
than these eight dollar trousers ever found in their pockets,
the fit much better too, a warm hug on a cold December day
lingering in the moment
She sat down at the crescent shaped bar,
ordered a martini, neat, pulled a crisp twenty from her clutch
and brushed a few stray brunette hairs from her face,
the mirror behind the bar happily reflecting her beauty
Raising the drink to her ruby red lips
I found myself wishing I were that glass,
smeared in her favorite shade, kissed by a sighing sip,
caressed by porcelain fingers wiping sweat from a glistening neck
A jewel in this dingy joint, shimmering in the dusty haze,
breathing some class into this oblong shadow
that had seen better days, but none like this, like her.
She was out of place like fine wine in a shot glass . . . but didn’t seem to care
She lifted a cigarette to her mouth, I was quick with a match,
watching as tobacco embers flared and smoke rose upward, swirling about freeform.
Putting her lips together she blew out the flame
with a whisper of breath that made me weak in the knees, “Thank you.”
I stared, forgetting the spent match I held between my fingers,
tongue tied or mesmerized, take your pick, both answers are correct.
“You’re welcome”, I stuttered like a school boy in braces, “new around here?”
“Kind of”, her voice as chiffon is soft, “I heard I might find a poet here . . . ”
To be continued . . .
Please check out parts 2 and 3 if you get a chance.
Hey Sweetie,
look up.
You don’t have to stay here
in this corner,
this nook.
It’s soo dark in here,
heavy with thoughtless words,
weighted in rot.
Trust me when I say:
these words aren’t your own, baby girl.
Because they’re not!
These faux thoughts you carry
they are not yours.
You can put them down now…
(Baaag lllady.)
They once kept you safe…
But, you look at me…
as you sit here trembling.
I need you to feel with your heart,
understand and see
that I am here.
I hold your hand.
We can do this.
You and I,
we are one,
at step one
walking together.
Not fighting.
(It was never a fight.)
Like a seasoned tightrope walker,
we together create balance:
the perfect rhythm
of left then right.
The top,
the bottom,
and all between
the parts we are ready,
but have yet to let ourselves see.
We’ve always had it,
even when they spew their own doubt.
We’ve always found that up, in, and out
“We got it!”
Route.
We’ve always been who we choose to be,
and we do this best
when present, loving,
and hugging on trees.
Why doubt what we already know?
Like a river on its way down to the O,
or a leaf free in the wind that blows
We… flow.
Not only our hair,
our height,
nor skin.
It’s India Arie’s “I Am Light.”
That soul.
That GOD within!
YOU don’t doubt YOU.
They doubt themselves.
You gather and carry these words as your own.
as I said
PUT THEM DOWN, NOW!
They’re an intended lesson,
with a RIGHTFUL home!
- Jalaila Hardy