Long Freeverse Poems
Long Freeverse Poems. Below are the most popular long Freeverse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freeverse poems by poem length and keyword.
'Love Story' Poetry Contest.
Sponsor: Regina Mcintosh
1st Place.
“I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”
- John Green, "The Fault in our Stars."
"Love is selfless. Love is respect. Love is infatuation. Love is more than all three combined."
- the poet
your lashes flutter when you open your eyes
chocolate orbs, blown wide
my favourite flavour
it starts like that
two souls – a little bit broken, a little forlorn
raven locks to hide behind and skin moonlit parchment
I think I must be a little bit gone
lost in nose scrunches and cheeks all bunched up
a healthy blush spread all over and those shy plunges
my poor heart clenches
it’s pouring outside and your clothes are drenched
your body is shivering and your teeth are chattering
yet the umbrella you hold is over my head
eyebrows strewn together, worried I’ll catch a cold
it’s not just the wind ruffling your hair, I think I love your heart
and everything’s pure, this feeling blueberry snow
you love without asking something in return
it’s not just your heart, I think I love your soul
I touch its beauty and I find a lover.
i text dead people for advice.
not because they answer—
they don’t—
but because they never interrupt.
i tell my grandfather
about the boy who left mid-winter
and how my ribcage still
clicks shut like a locket
when someone new gets close.
he was buried in silk,
but i like to imagine
he’d wear combat boots now
and tell me to run before love
swallowed me whole.
i ask Sylvia
what to do
with the hurt that has no name,
the ache that sits like a houseguest
i never invited.
i send her my poems at 3 a.m.—
the ones with too much blood
and not enough metaphor.
she doesn’t reply.
but somehow, i feel seen.
sometimes i text
my childhood self.
she’s dead too,
in a way.
i ask her if the monster
was really under the bed
or if it slept in a room that never unlocked.
she sends back
a drawing of a girl
with no mouth.
i know what she means.
my inbox is a graveyard.
a collection of ghosts
who hold more kindness
than most living hands.
they never leave me on read.
they never ask me
to explain my sadness
in bullet points.
i text dead people for advice
because the living
tend to offer solutions
when all i want
is for someone
to hold the question.
Spirit didn’t knock.
It entered through the back door—
a sliver of wind in my kitchen,
on a Tuesday so ordinary
I thought the sacred had forgotten me.
The sky was the color of old bruises,
and my hands were inside a basin of water
that had cooled too quickly.
The air held nothing.
And then it held everything.
No angel descended.
No flame spoke.
Just a silence so full it trembled,
and I trembled with it.
I looked up,
but nothing had changed—
except the way my breath hung in the room,
like it knew something I didn’t.
Spirit came dressed as memory,
but not mine—
the kind that belongs to stone,
to salt,
to wombs that never stopped singing.
It wasn’t ecstasy.
It was ache.
A blooming pressure behind my ribs,
as if I had swallowed a name
I was never supposed to say aloud.
I heard a voice that was not a voice,
say:
“Be still. You are already the altar.”
And suddenly,
the spoon I held in my palm
felt like a relic.
The dust on the windowsill
felt like the remains of prayer.
Even the fridge hummed
in the key of reverence.
No one else saw it.
Not the flicker in my hands,
not the thinning veil between
what is and what almost is.
I didn’t sleep that night.
My body buzzed with some remembering
older than language.
I cried,
but not from sadness.
It was the weeping of a house
that finally hears its own name spoken
after centuries of silence.
To be touched by spirit
is not to be lifted—
but lowered,
into the temple of yourself.
It is to feel your skin become a doorway.
It is to breathe with the moon’s pulse.
It is to carry stillness like a storm
just barely contained.
They will say
it was imagination,
a trick of emotion,
a moment of fatigue.
Let them.
But I know what the dust told me.
I know the shape my shadow made.
I know the voice that never left.
And every time I pour water
or touch a leaf,
or weep for no reason,
I remember:
Spirit doesn’t knock.
It enters
when you’ve forgotten how to ask.
And stays
in everything you cannot explain.
Do you think we could fall in love again next summer?
Like a warm breeze that swiftly moves through the seasons embracing for the cold winter ahead.
We would sit among dewy grass blades and walk along the chilled sand from a secluded beach as the moon rises.
Splash and swim around in chilly water.
Lay between wildflowers and bees in the woods somewhere, talking about everything and nothing.
Listen to the calming flow of a freshwater river buried deep in the wild mountains.
Staring up at the sky, bewildered by the emerald canopy of trees nestling us in their shade.
A sweet song serenading the climate, notes of gumtree and musk from a crackling fire hang in the air.
Birds chirping in nearby nests, the sound of children giggling and playing.
Here, beneath the warm sun rays, it dances on your skin marking soft freckles along your perfect rosy face.
Your laughter is something i will never grow weary of, as the trees grow more leaves and the cold nights melt away.
I want to feel your arms surrounding me again as the day turns into night, the sun drifts away and the sky gets darker, glittered with a million stars, so beautiful yet it could never compare to you.
I long to embrace you under those sparkly celestial bodies, once more feel your love wrapping around me, immersing me in a warm daydream.
I know it will end, all things end.
but this i would like to stay forever the same,
Because a soul like yours is worth loving.
she does not walk—
she ignites.
in the dark cathedral of ash and echoes,
she spins,
a silhouette carved from the mouth of a flame,
hips swaying like the last breath of a phoenix.
her dress—
not cloth, but the wind of burning wings,
each thread crackling with a story
that refused to be extinguished.
arms flung skyward—
not surrender,
but invocation.
the fire does not consume her.
it listens.
it bows.
around her, shadows rise—
not to haunt,
but to bear witness
to a woman who does not flee the blaze,
but becomes it.
she is every scorched past
that refused to stay buried.
every no that grew teeth.
every silence that shattered into song.
they said:
"let her be careful—
she plays too close to the edge."
but they did not see—
the edge was her altar.
and she?
the prayer set alight.
she is not burning.
she is the match.
the myth.
the revolution in a red dress.
and when the world asks
how she survived the inferno,
tell them—
she did not survive it.
she danced it into dust.
Nothing is better beneath the heavens
There are no words to describe
How beautiful her little dress is
With tiny red roses
Just over the knees .... silk
And gently just as... my hand touches her skin
Fluttering, by a gentle breeze
Dear God! The way it fills my heart with love
Oh, my! How it fills my soul with happiness
Holding her around the waist ...
Brings me ... I think that my arm is
And I hope that my right hand...
That thought makes me blush
And brings me a million wishes
My heart whispering softly to Heavens
Making a promise in his ear saying: I love her ...
And I cannot wait for her to come to me
With a smile on her face and
To bring joy
In the heartbeats of my heart
And stay there forever
I often question why we are here
are we pieces to a bigger puzzle
why do we hide these questions from the world,
afraid of rejection, fear?
I often question what it's like to be mute,
observing the world instead of trying to figure it out-
observing people instead of telling them what to do
I often wonder why we are all afraid-
afraid of getting old,
afraid to obtain a new career
afraid of money.
I always wonder why we can't just live at peace,
why does the world dictate who you are-
why can't we just be and that's enough.
Sometimes, I wonder what sort of things keep people going-
whether they are near death or have something traumatic happen
We are all the basis of one thing, human,
we all thrive with love and communication and if it is neglected, we simply can't go on.
Life from a 25 year old is far from difficult,
it's rather an observation-
appraised from a young adult
there's so much life ahead of me,
yet I need some answers first.
I wonder what life would be like if society gave up-
it was up to us to become our greatest
what would happiness be?
Conditionally,
“unconditional”
comes with its
vast conditions,
don’t you agree?
we invest our love,
and all of ourselves
into the adoration
and dissection
of all forms
of muses,
who will,
or will not
be found
swimming amused
in each others'
minds,
in each others'
poetry;
we are a muse
ourselves, egregious
to the rules of iambic
and other rigid romping
rhythms and rites
to be righted,
that we daily play
dodgeball with ardently,
it's like ducking from
incoming magpies
guarding their nests,
circling their
small-worldly boundaries,
establishing their tiny
very tight territories,
they fly in at us hard
with their sharp beaks
and their spit, they assert
they are allied with the best,
those well informed
highly schooled scribes,
who largely mistaken in mind,
dunk others less than less, and wait
for the curs'ed to float,
but in the sinking
those curs'ed
drowned muses,
in that terrible
horrendous misfortune,
tied to their dunking chairs,
eyes now wide open,
find diamonds
at the bottom of
their damned pond,
as they swiftly pass
schools of wayward fish
with no clear direction in mind,
and other monsters
pulling out hearts
with their pre-prehistoric
saber-toothed grins;
hellelujah for those
who bespoke for you
freeverse from the ego
within the heart -
it’s the mind that cuts
without hesitation,
draws lines in the sand,
limiting us to couplets
in greeting cards
sans ampersand,
conditionally
"unconditional";
the curs'ed
eventually wake
and they rise,
spilling tea
stirring
sugar 'n spice
into the bland,
who eventually
open their eyes
and their minds,
unconditionally
“conditional”
sans ampersand
heart
mind
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Inside the outside of everything
Colors conform to retreat
I seek not what is lost or gained
I only seek the truth or fiction
Inside the Outside of all
I stumble against the wall of remorse
And in the distance of morning or nightide
I see the truth as gospel or not
Colors bleed into morning or night
Like the dharma of dawn reborn
I see the raven flying or hanging
On a rope-ladder to the moon and back
I am dead but hopeful of life
In all the usual places or not
I am dead and only now
glimpse the truth
Travel inward, walking in tight
corridors of a rundown maze.
Suffocating within these bricks,
built by sweat and tears.
Obfuscated by the mist that,
blinds, and smells rosemary.
Turns creating uncountable corners,
leaving space for beings to breathe.
Beings that watch — and stalk.
The cracks on the walls can seduce
with outward's gaze, but there is no escape.
Any window or ledges — and the thought
of walking back to face them shivers my soul.
These walls built me too, each drop
of sweat, like metal for hardening.
Each drop of tear, like light for clarity.
Lost, but I keep moving.
Not chained, just surrounded.
I was never alone, like a kid
that leaves crumbles in the forest.
I was already in pieces, pieces of my own spirit.
They were me.
They told me:
“Pierce the pain. Look beyond.”
I did not.
I cannot will —
I can only long.
Imust not become nothing.
I remain unfinished.