Long Gold digger Poems
Long Gold digger Poems. Below are the most popular long Gold digger by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gold digger poems by poem length and keyword.
The form is one Gregory Richard Barden created called "Cinqopet" (sing-ko-pay) and it is very musical - it consists of five stanzas of five lines each, with the rhyme scheme AAABB, CCCDD, etc, the first three lines of each stanza are in Iambic Tetrameter (eight syllables, four iambic feet) followed by two Catalectic Lines (seven syllables, three and-a-half iambic feet), and at the very end a tag - this can be anything you want, another rhyming line, a single word, another stanza, whatever you choose, but make sure it's separated from the fifth stanza.
Hearts For Praise
Glistening, hesitant dreams sigh
As heaven hears night’s soft goodbye
Through blackness, way up in the sky
My soul sings rhythms of grace
This is wonder we all face
Glowing, in lush whispers of light
Gently rising rings of insight
Weathered colors of softest night
Blessings stir my heart to heal
Flowing love that light can feel
Graceful stories written by love
On wings of joy, wings of the dove
Reveals light from heaven above
Splendor of night, lights fading
Beauty in life’s persuading
Growing a church, worship with praise
Glory alive, more than a phase
Up to the heavens, my eyes gaze
Life is unpredictable
Our crimes are convictable
Grieving the night, her lost vigor
She never was a gold digger
Risking it all, she grew bigger
Awaiting the moment, soon
I’ll keep staring at the moon
With eyes of faith, I see her
The breathless truth is such a blur
Light of heaven, who will transfer
Love so gentle, amazing
My heart blessed, always praising
...
....
.....if you truly searched and found me not
for five weeks.
I'm sorry 'cos..
I fed little or no poetry.
stories are meant for the tellers
this, as accorded :
my muse bled painstakingly
I wasn't just robbed
my gadgets were too.
At first, I spoke like a goon
identity forgone, fear has risen
on my scale of actions.
Even though the mirror hurts
later found the reincarnated me
feeling once more, the childhood I left.
Assault in rounds of slap
beaten to pulp, factually , no bandages .
my diary explains more while time lapses
indeed it was a witness
I nearly lost my mind
after loosing some utterances
Cat and dogs ran, I feared to live.
They dare not come to my rescue
I'm no tatterdemalion! non adheres,
some thought I was begging for alms,
left inbound like a stray ?? .
Thank holiness,
pejoratively, there exists no male urchin
I was there in the street, weeping like a stream
still, they believe the gold digger hath come.
Men ain't faulty,
little do they know about faults
even I lost all hope
here I am, life is still
my naked ??
Form:
I smiled invitingly, the screen
Revealed woman of my ideal
Russian silk beauty, pure, unseen
Pillow lips, brush eyelash appeal
I said I could serve her well, my earnings
Would purchase nicest things of her yearnings
I'll fly her here, get her spousal visa
Her eyes alight, replied, "Sure... I'm Leeza"
" I need a man on good money"
I smiled, " Two fifty salary"
Her sqint, " Oh, it is that each month?"
Sense shrieked above smooth aesthetic
Her theme clearly spelt pretentious
- Need to switch her off, tremendous
2nd September 2020
Written for Contest: Charronet
Sponsor: Charles Messina
I seem to make life very complicated
I wish I was like her and be more sofisticated
She's the type to take more than she would give
Giving until I'm spent seems to be the way I live
Going beyond the surface emotionally is who I am
She's friends with benefits and bam bam thank you ma'am
She seems to always earn the respect and the fondness of men
I'm told I nag too much and they want the relationship to end
In frustration I often ask why can't I be just like her
The one most men go after and the one they would prefer
She doesn't care about anyone and she only looks out for herself
I turn men off from just from being myself
Is there any men out there that is looking to be well pleased
No, just looking to pay in exchange for what's between the knees
I can't be just like her because I know how to love to the core
I'm part of a package that offer things that can't be paid for
Unlike her I'm not impressed by possessions or a dollar
If you can't read between my lines then, why even bother
To keep me around you have to learn things unmentioned
I'm not looking for gifts and things I'm seeking your attention
The reason I can't be just like her is because I'm a different breed
I'm very unique and odd that's why she can't be me
I know the devil is real
she is clever
he is smart
she is pretty
he is handsome
yes
I know the devil is real
I know the devil is real
she is seductive
he is charming
she is deceiver
he is a manipulator
yes
i know the devil is real
I know the devil is real
she is courageous
he is brave
she is a gold digger
he is a thief
yes
I know the devil is real
I know the devil is real
she is so sexy
he is so sexy
she is a demon
he is wizard
yes
I know the devil is real
I know the devil is real
she is so intelligent
he is so sensitive
she is a killer
he is a destroyer
yes
I know the devil is real
I know the devil is real
she is a virgin
he is innocent
she is a devil
he is a devil
yes
I know the devil is real
She appeared like a shadow in silk,
On 57th Street,
Where men lose themselves
Trying to impress ghosts.
Victoria — that was her name.
She smiled not with warmth,
But with calculation.
And I, foolish in my hunger for love,
Mistook her gaze for fate.
She asked if the Rolls-Royce was mine.
I told her it belonged to my boss.
She changed.
The voice that once danced now became dust.
“I’ll call you later,” she said.
But the silence that followed was louder than any goodbye.
She vanished into velvet clubs and champagne whispers,
Fell for a man named Cat —
A rising sun of flashing gold and fleeting power.
He wore his wealth on his skin
Like armor.
She followed.
She worshipped.
But when the roses wilted
And betrayal knocked,
He shot her —
Five times in her legs.
The very legs she used to chase fortune.
Her name filled the papers,
Not with love stories,
But with warnings.
Victoria the Gold Digger,
They called her.
She died on 15 October 2024,
Alone, unnamed by those who once bought her smiles.
She died not because she loved riches,
But because she forgot love.
Real love.
And I?
I was not just a driver.
I was the man who could’ve given her the world.
But she only saw the key,
Not the kingdom.
Now her story is a requiem,
A silent scream echoing in the hearts of broken men.
Not all that glitters is love.
Some glitter is grief waiting to happen.
To the men—
Measure love not by the sparkle in her eyes,
But by the silence when you have nothing.
To the women—
Gold can buy a dress,
But never a legacy.
“If you put a really small value upon yourself, rest assured that the world will not raise your price." --Anonymous
Hi heels equals low feels
They can be uncomfortable
So what’s the deal
Bad in the long run
For your hazel health
Do you wear for them or for yourself
Painted face masking you
Dare I ask
What you trying to prove
Do you feel better
Hiding your truth
Will you ever
Know that beauty is the real you
Wigs and weave
The new standard today
Hopefully
You know you are great
Not saying
It’s ok to hate
Just saying authenticity celebrate
For you dudes
Maybe you feel it too
Judgement cloud over you
Maybe you are short
Or you feel behooved
When you court as the real you
If she is a lot lizard
Or she sins as gold digger
You too must know your worth
Saying no to her doesn’t make you a jerk
To yourself
Please be true
Grow in health
To love authentic you
We watched the them tiptoe around each other
On a sandy beach in Florida during a June moon
He was handsome, tall but not lanky, built right.
She was dainty, petite and she moved like a ballerina.
I am her friend, so I was not doing cartwheels.
There was something about him that felt sad.
I am always a bit shy of the injured puppy types.
She did not see it, he became “the one” in her mind.
His friends were not excited about her.
She is not from their preppy side of the world.
Was she a gold digger? Would she pull him down?
A spring break romance, none of us expected longevity.
We were all wrong. They have been married forty-eight years.
They have six children and seventeen grandchildren.
All because two teenagers began tiptoeing around each other
on a sandy beach in Florida during a June moon.
She's very determined
Not desperate
She's not a gold digger
Whatever she owns
She works very hard for
She have a lot of integrity
She always standout in the society.
Whatever love she gets
She never misuse or abuse
She's grateful
So she doesn't become disgraceful
Because she knows the game
Steadily living life according
To her pace not societal race.
She knows what she needs
That's why she never settles
For societal wants
Because every deeds
Comes with a ripple effect
She's very independent
Not a liability
She's always available for productivity.
Where can I find this special kind of woman!?
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Invisible beings painted in, sentries stand by, awaiting
his slightest command. The diablos stands by too,
mocking each mark of Jesus’ path, for he holds on tight
to the wretched and weak beings, the easily tempted,
the hungry beggars, the lame, suffering and sick.
The scorch of Christ’s touch, as he heals Adams and Eves,
the liar does not like this, not one little bit. The release
of light into their eyes, the clearing of their consciences,
bitterness fleeing, wounds sealed up as if they never existed.
The howling of a wanderer in this cursed earth. He recalls
those gentle eyes, those wise words, the beauty of the garden.
The horn’d reject can only wind around weeds, thorns, hollowed
branches - something that would make mankind’s skin crawl.
Christ’s see-through hands, reach out and touch, lepers
and lowly woman bereft of freedom. When his mouth moves
the inner universe of each soul either erupts or folds.
The son’s magnificent eyes made of gold, shine as the Father of lights.
Holy Spirit comfort radiates the passion of warmth and O
when he weeps, the impression of Rembrandt’s plates sear.
Multitudes of destitute and growling tummies follow his beat.
When he speaks of eating his flesh and drinking his blood
the murmuring crowd, much like the Israelites in the desert,
turn their backs, with no understanding of the Mannah’s lips.
The dozen choose him. Who else shall we go to. We know you.
Although one is a plant, a weed himself. Should we feel sorry
for the gold digger? He oft shakes the communal bag, opens
and sifts it like sand, retrieving a couple grains. If he only knew
the cost. O the cost! Did he steal the tithe? The ten percent
would be like quicksand. The devil would leave him hanging.
What special touches - the eyes, the mouth, his hands.
The brushes illuminate the solid ground - his walk.
Christ’s frame humble and confident, his mission to save.
2/1/2021