Long Goth Poems
Long Goth Poems. Below are the most popular long Goth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Goth poems by poem length and keyword.
She was the type who dressed only in darks,
a ‘non-conformist’ teen who bathed in snark,
in black lipstick her smile did hide,
row of piercings ran above her eyes.
Her family came in October to my inn,
a bed-and-breakfast in a Victorian,
early fall I made it over into
a classic Gothic house, for a scare of two.
It was a lot of fun, so said our guests,
the town said my Haunted House was the best,
but as the goth walked in, looked from her phone,
she rolled her eyes hard and let out a groan.
She went to my mummy, Ammon-Hotap,
said,”How much toilet paper went into that?”
Seeing my Dracula, she laughed and proclaimed:
“He’s been done to death, so tired and tame.”
My bell-hop dressed himself as Wolf-man,
with the family’s baggage, he gave a hand,
she went up to him as he was working,
said,”Dude, for your sake, the big box is hiring.”
I bit back a strong urge to choke the runt,
or call her a bad name that rhymed with ‘bunt,’
so I faked a smile, went to help too,
said,”Right this way folks, I’ll show you your rooms.”
After I had the parents settled in,
I asked the goth girl,”Do you need anything?”
She gave me a look, said,”Before you go,
I need the WiFi password, for my phone.”
I shrugged and said,”We won’t have internet.”
And she let out a shriek that awoke the dead!
Never before had I heard such a scream,
it was probably heard by half the county.
All the ghosts and goblins did not do the trick,
but you take the gadgets, it gets scary quick.
I guess next year I’ll have to change the display,
to reflect what terrifies the kids these days.
(A tired voice whispers)
I think I was put under love's enchanted spell
When I first met that wondrous heart
That to me
Quietly yelled
For I've walked so many hard miles in this black sand and yellow sea
Acid rain and pale snow
As far as my tired eyes could see
Wandered to low places
Where the Good
Don't go
Seen dark shadows
Dance the Argentine Tango as fireflies glowed
But still, I stand strong
Even though my clothes and eyes are wet
Wet with those old tears,
I once cried
When you died
Walking and finding
This
The only way
Was hard and long
With just my memories of your love
To carry me
To find you
With its sweet mesmerising song
And for centuries
I searched through these wind blown mists
And now at the threshold of all things
As a lone bell rings
I call out across these ever-changing roads
Are you there
My only goth girl
My torment and heaven at noon
The one bestowed with all the gifts
Who once made my poor soul bloom
If so
Open up the bejeweled doors
And let me into that room
Where you stand
Use your Frankincense
Herbs of blue and pure prayers
To create a sacred space in The Promised Land
To save this lovesick veteran
Of the universes
Endless spiritual wars
This I call in front of all
Will you appear
From the folds
And show me
Once again
Your beautiful face
Before I merge forever
Into this yellow sea
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Taken
In this graveyard I sit and inhale the smoke.
As I sit, I read names, dates and quotes.
He was this and she was that.
They didn’t escape death…that is all I know.
Roses among the moss, the raindrops begin to fall down;
I stare into the dying sunlight and see images through clouds.
Then I see another mourner, praying to God;
We are both dressed in black, but she is no Goth.
She is just lost and has lost someone she loved;
I will not disturb her in her time of grief,
But I will glance at the grave stone when she is gone
And I am heading home, past all the head stones.
What is this sadness that surrounds us all in this place?
They have all been taken away.
Etchings and numbers like nineteen forty seven;
Names no longer remembered now they have all risen to Heaven.
Families reunited, never truly divided;
Always nearby if needed, inside a guiding light.
I kissed a girl and I kind of liked it;
But now her kisses are bitter to the thought,
Now she has been taken from my life.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
My Astrologer, ‘Sex and Love’ horoscope, for Halloween, is grim and on-trend for me.
(Libra) “Get ready to take some chill-time - give yourself the space to recover. People pleasing is out, boundaries are in!” Yeah, I’m like Texas, I have unsecure boundaries.
Sure, I KNOW horoscopes are horoscopes but while other signs get unicorns & puppies:
Aries: “Use your deepest desires to please yourself, step into your power.”
Gemini: “Your curious and bubbly nature shines, shoot your shot for that special someone!”
Cancer: “Be at home in your feels, your needs & emotional expressions are valued, go deeper.”
I’m getting “Suck it up buttercup,” thanks universe - what did I ever do to you?
We’ve been scanning the teen magazine fall looks, “We’re living in a bold era, a time of expression!” They declare, which means dramatic-metallic eyeliners, goth grunge, bold reds and Beyoncé’s “Renaissance silvers.” Luckily, Yale’s pretty low fashion environment, because seasonal changes are a lot to keep up with.
I love Autumn, with its colorful leaves, pumpkin lattes and colder nights, but coming from the south (in ‘21), I had no idea how badly heated air could dry out my skin and hair (freshie year, my thumb literally started to crack, like a plastic Barbie).
In the spirit of fall fashion and maintenance, my entire crew made an Ulta store run this morning for hair masks, detox tonics and skin moisturizers - we’re ready, bring on the cold.
The best smelling places on earth are Ulta and Yankee Candle stores. In my religion, heaven smells like Starbucks in the morning, Chick-fil-A around noon and Ulta stores as the sun goes down and things turn dreamy and romantic.
rumanative &
ancient
in gathering skies
of thunder&beating rain
groves&glades
with enormous boles
grasping at roots
&twisting sinews
clotted thatch corn stooks
sprinkled
&showered with a
thousand eyes
motley clothing fine meshes &
dappled skies&
mountains of light
enriching the actual present
pure&quaint
a crinkled Goth
pitting his English visions
with riches&fruitfulness
of urgent realities
in
prodigal
profusion
THE LITTLE GOTHIC SHOP
Down in the village
In the center square
Lies a little Gothic Shop
People hardly know it’s there
Lanterns swing outside the door
A bell rings as you enter in
You are greeted by the owners smile
More like a cheeky grin
Yes, my dear the woman says
Holding out her hand
Covering each and every finger
With a silver band
Her rings are all unusual
None are very small
One has a little Lion on
She bought it from a market stall
As you look around the shop
At all its wondrous stock
Imagination runs away with you
Just like, you have had a shock
There’s Dragons, Wizards and the like
And Incense burning, it smells so right
Witches by the score abound
To some it could be quite a fright
The Dresses hanging in the alcove
Take your breath away
Majestic colors, Red Blues and Greens
In styles that look so gay
Fancy boots, some short some long
With laces by the score
There is even a Highwayman’s cloak
Hanging behind the door
On a shelf there’s giant’s castles
Where Wizards ply their trade
Along with their Frogs and Toads
It’s where the magic spells are made
All the unusual Jewellery and Ornaments
Are put out on display
For you to try on and look at
In the hope that you will pay
To take some of it away with you
A dress to wear, a fancy ring
Something that takes your eye
It could be anything
Well my dears the woman says
What can I sell you today?
Can’t let you in and out again
Without you have to pay
Her Earrings hang loosely down
Dangling from her ears
Dressed from head to foot in black
A true Goth through and through the years
In dark times Eve is my bright delight.
she hovers over my in darkness I devour her enemies.
Walk up toward the sky head for Eve's dream.
Knights fall warden ready for the wall.
Silver rings and golden lights.
Quantum sight searching for visions of Jesus by my side.
Eve the vampire goth queen of mystery hovers over me.
In sight of the pressure we burn with our sights on the Master.
Jesus will return with the shout of an Arch angel and a trumpet of God.
Lord you are my creator who above all created Eve my mystery Babylon my sweet honey baby.
In my times of joy I dream of Eve. Her identity, a secret. her love, very real.
Rock my Rock is Jesus cause he created her My Mystery Babylon my Hidden secret my Mirror.
Hidden in the clef of the rock I am safely in your Hand my creator My Yeshua.
I’m a master in the performance of freedom. In Paris, this is just part of the social graces, but I maintained it as an act, to deceive potential college friends and then my current boyfriend into thinking I’m more fun than my truth.
The truth eventually outs though.
Shall we go poetic?
Last night we (my bf and I) went to an Opium rave
On Saturday nights we try to be brave
we ordered our drinks and as as they were raised
the noise hit us like a tsunami wave
I keep ear-plugs in my purse, so we were saved
but it was mood-wise and musically depraved
we flinched, like a middle-aged couple, and flaked
I should have sampled the bands - It was a mistake.
Alas, it didn’t turn out the fun date-nite we craved
Sundays we recharge and we needed the break.
Ok, I’m over it (rhyming).
Opium’s a music label with a universe of artists like Playboi Carti and Sexisdeath. What drew me in was the fashion trend, a “Opium aesthetic,” you might say, which meant fans weren’t just listening to, they were dressing for it, developing a style, which pulled from goth, punk and metal.
The sound evolved from those influences too, but there’s way more distortion, screech and hypnotic repetition. As bad as it was - and it was bad - it certainly kept the crowd moving in a film-it-with-your-phone mosh-pit way.
They were between DJs when we arrived and we’d ordered drinks - then the music hit and OMG, we gulped our martinis like shooters - leaving early and irritated. Does this mean we’re getting old?
Anyway, don’t worry about us, we’ll erase that experience when we see ‘Tyler, The Creator’ at the ‘Rock en Seine’ festival, Wednesday night. The man makes a crowd connection.
Ooo, want a fashion tip?: Sasha Sorrell jeans are the new Hedi Dior jeans.
.
.
A song for this:
See You Again (feat. Kali Uchis) by Tyler, The Creator
If you want to simulate our rave experience, try this link: and turn it up (I dare ya):
youtu.be/Kx6OGDFS5Sg?list=RDKx6OGDFS5Sg
I sat on the edge of the roof, studying the horizon
Waiting for the do-gooder, who makes me wretch
He will not be ho-ho-ho-ing after I get finished here.
I feel something protruding from my left incisor.
Remnants of last year’s Santa.
The night is still, the ambiance makes me giddy.
There is an evilness afoot that delights my black heart.
I imagine what I will be doing to this year’s cheerful idiot.
My teeth gnash hard, practically breaking.
I am ready for the fool who dares approach.
“It is Krampus!” I hear someone yell.
Three midnight friendly humans begin throwing hard things up on the roof.
I will return fire later. Right now there is only one victim.
I watch for him, hoping he will be nauseously joyful.
Those are the kinds of Santas whom I enjoy slicing and devouring the best.
A wolf howls, feeling my excitement.
I lie in wait, sitting on the chimney now.
I can practically taste salty blood.
I salivate in readiness.
An orphan of her own doing, she frequents the nightclub scene
Completely her own person, possibly pumped up on heroin.
I try to make conversation but she doesn’t know me
She is speaking with her angels, needs no people at all
Smiles condescendingly at me, and I fade off
Understanding she is not sharing her pain
Keeping it safe, hidden under a smile I barely recognize.
She is goth-like in appearance, black make up decorates her eyes,
not wanting to stand out or be noticed;
I am unsure why she is here at all.
I see her talking to her spirit guides; and I admire her.
She is her own person, needing none of us.
If we disappeared it would not be noticed.
She is an orphan of her own making.
Keeping her pain hidden under that hesitant smile.
Her superstitious nature wears a rabbit foot in her pocket.
A plethora of various religious symbols around her neck.
I wonder if her angels are from Egyptian mythology?
Are they Christian, Buddha or Mohamed-led?
I approach her but dare not ask.
Her smile stops me.
I am dead to her.
We all are.
An orphan by choice.