Long Gothic Poems
Long Gothic Poems. Below are the most popular long Gothic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gothic poems by poem length and keyword.
I lay in my bed.
Thoughts come in waves.
When will it end?
The Dragon slain.
No amount of time.
No person, no thing.
Can change the fate,
That the needle brings.
Sights of Orange,
Delight my eyes.
I pick up a crystal,
And to no surprise.
I crush it down.
In that damn orange cup.
I’m so overwhelmed.
The sinking feeling abrupt.
I carefully decide,
The amount to pour.
Then mix it with water.
And dissolve once more.
I take off the cap,
To reveal the shine.
Of that needle so enticing.
That it blows my mind.
I feel so small.
As I stare at that point.
My body quivers.
I can’t disappoint.
Thoughts of guilt.
Invade my brain.
But my body keeps saying,
This will soon end the pain.
So I draw the solution,
Into the stem.
Then flick it twice.
Let the bubbles settle in.
I slowly push the air out.
That’s collected on top.
And wonder to myself,
If I will ever stop.
But I shrug it away.
And again think of pain.
Then tie on my tourniquet.
And say “ it” again.
The veins start to pop.
And spread on my skin.
They bulge and prod,
And trickle within.
Sometimes this takes hours.
Sometimes days of my life.
I get so frustrated.
But search on with strife.
I stab myself over and over again.
Until the blood flows red into my syringe.
Seeing the blood,
Makes my whole body weak.
But I surrender with ease.
No more words can I speak.
I push the plunger forward,
Till she entires my veins.
Down to the last drop.
Empty and insane.
I wait just a second.
Pull the needle out.
My body turns to fire.
This is what it’s all about.
From my toes to my head,
Her venom spreads.
Ecstasy at last.
No more feelings of dread.
Then the fire fades,
Just as quickly as it came.
And then there’s just calm.
A final break from the shame.
I’ve given my life to this process,
So many times.
The bigger the shot.
The bigger the crimes.
When I’m in this state,
The dragon has one.
My mind and my heart,
Become unspun.
I do terrible things,
To all of my friends.
My family, my children.
But she always wins.
I always think I can only do one.
But that’s never the case.
The cycles just begun.
“The devils tool” I’ve heard it said.
Takes every ounce of life.
And leaves you for dead.
But you rise up and start
The process once more.
A zombie. Tortured chaos.
I don’t know anymore.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
"The Queen's Slippers - Part 2"
There goes my heart
with bags packed
no turning back
or final wave
seated hooded next to huntsman
innocent, gauche, temperamental
There will come a time
to save,
but save oneself
on this dark road,
one must -
There will come a time
to talk,
but walk the talk
on this dark road by oneself
‘tis the True Lesson,
to Win-Win,
one must.
A gold wedding ring
A delicate diamante crucifix
An open heart
Some words inscribed
Latin to remember
casually tossed aside
Sterling Silver
broken in seconds
That is the past
Life now beckons.
Lost. Much later. Lost.
A Soothsayer sees –
A Soothsayer knows.
A Soothsayer has walked
the same Road.
Bluebird's and Cuckoo's nests
glittery material things
carrots dangled by withered carrion minds;
True wealth are the hidden maps
buried in the Lost Forrest of Time.
There is an owl it perches
on my heart
digs it’s talons in like
nine inch nails piercing
it softly hoots, too diabolical
for screeching
The Owl slowly turns it’s eyes
towards the Reader
a silent voyeur trespassing on the kill,
it digs it’s talons in sharper
blood flows claret stained
drop by drop
into the Poison Chalice, again,
blood flows warm and free
it’s pumping with life yet, see?
Soon, too soon it will come
tomorrows are never guaranteed.
Above it’s right talon a sterling silver anklet
it holds life in balance, still,
Warm with life
Cold with death
The fine line drawn between
Imperious over lifeblood’s flow
Inscribed, in font Gothic,
The Owl’s name is POE
Gently, the writer places the hood over POE’s eyes and kisses the top of his head. Our writer, dear reader, brings out her Queen’s Slippers. Hearts are in her mind, she’s playing “NO TRUMPS”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Feb 2018)
1. In Australia, the Joker in the Queen's Slipper brand of playing cards depicts a Kookaburra, a bird native to Australia with a call that famously resembles human laughter. In Australian games of 500, the Joker is often referred to colloquially as "The Bird"
2. "Do You Love Me", Nick Cave
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZGPB4463mM
3. "The Day the World Went Away", NIN
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtmI6j3R-Y0
"50 Words for Poe: Styx"
Sleep now
Your Nepenthe has been taken
listen to your dream
what you pay alms for
requires surveillance
this is where she is reached and seen
in her dreams she dreams within your dream
He whistles in with the wind
Like King of the Hill
Incubus sucks her soul in
she sits in his boat
long bare legs wearing
Red killer stilettos,
"Persimmon" on her wiggling toenails
She's all covered in Sin
she smells good, ripe for kissing
sailing on Styx
towards some kind of destiny
Him and his hot dream
on their first tryst
this vetoes all need for safe religion
when he looks at himself,
God is in the mirror
staring back at Him
He smiles a Jack Nicholson grin
In vivid hues of Blue
he dreams to win
She whispers,
“Baby come here, come in”
This is all he needs
He's already on his knees
She becomes
His strange new religion
The Black Raven softly sings
Purple is the colour not Red, that 'reals' him in
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"And I'm not one for thinking twice,
But I know this much is true,
The earth will turn and powder burns,
And you are my revolver."
Strange Religion, Mark Laneganhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TAQZKbUkK_0
The Red Shoes, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rbbPPy_bNM4
Lily, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWaqPOnR5wU
Moments of Pleasure, Kate Bushhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pW5hjWVS3ho
Revolver, Campbell/Laneganhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT1Y0m8MX2I
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Styx
Purple
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-purple/
https://www.colormatters.com/the-meanings-of-colors/purple
Red
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-red/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Red_Shoes_(fairy_tale)
Blue
https://www.bourncreative.com/meaning-of-the-color-blue/
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nepenthe
Ode to Pain:
Springing forth and flowing in energetic liquidity. Emotions in motion in chasms far reaching me.
Of hearts preaching unbalanced in teaching thee. Lessons in life.
In balance.
Far from reaching me.
Ode to pain in yesterday's strife.
Memories of laid down bodies at night.
Darkest of specters nefarious in plight.
Left us unanswered in misery's strife.
Ode to the moon.
Only a fraction of light.
In mortal terror.
Rancid owls screeching in flight!
How, let us see through pitch blackness and fright?
When words are but all remembered.
With no dawning of light.
In lew of an awakening mind in the night.
We are given to remember our lives from great heights.
Falling from heaven became habits and rites.
Trapping our intentions.
Expectations arise.
Praying for forgiveness so that our Son may still rise.
Giving us forgiveness for wicked deeds in sight.
From the bowels are earthquakes.
Not butterflies.
Just lies.
We gather for sermons.
Hope will arise?
But all we are doing is looking elsewhere in spite.
Rather than the victims of our deeds in their eyes.
Instead we pray for forgiveness in the absence of sight.
Focusing on before.
The traumatic moments we die.
It's only in that moment.
Forgiveness will arise.
With power to break chains from your victims felt cries.
Relieving the pressures of dark gasses.
Bottled up inside.
Dissolving the lies from behind those eyes.
Your soul became wicked and suffered by night.
But mourning for forgiveness is not only just wise.
It's the only reason the sun has to wake up.
Have the courage to rise.
Shining light on your failures as a human is nice.
But shining light from your victim is forgiveness.
It carries you in time.
Relieving your worries and healing your mind.
Instead we kneel in darkness and pray to a vine.
Who's divine berries are sweeter and made into wine.
But the thorns are ripping apart in your mind.
Now that It's open.
Your blood we shall find.
Dripping and dropping and leaving behind.
A trail of just sorrow.
Nothing in mind.
Tears are long passed.
Nothing to find.
When the dark heart will not follow.
It's left there behind.
In these dark mortal terrors.
Forever.
You're left here.
You're Blind!
Dark heart of the lonely.
I love you
As if You are mine.
Stretching at the very heavens are the braches of autumn,
It is becoming the season of death, and mother natures promise
Of rebirth is with drawing, leaving nothing behind but stilled
Whispering echoes.
The very ground itself grows fidgeted, as winters icy finger tips
Strangle at earths raw under belly, finally it yields to the pains
Agony and nature lies slain, forced into hibernation’s sleep, until
Spring breath will awaken it at last, with resurrection’s sweet kiss of life
Once more.
A screeching black raven clings to the darkening skies, one by one do
These harvengers of death land atop the trees icy prongs that bend and
Brake beneath their feather weight of distain.
Dark eyed demons ever watching, waiting unto the night takes passion
Of this world of the living, these sentinels of the demonic peck, and strike
At one another with anticipations things to come by night.
A stilled silence blankets the forest; nothing stirs except the creaking of
The ice in a near by stream, on the path a sobering wind rustles at the deadened
Leaves that crackle in the fall breeze.
It so creeps forward the feeling of uneasiness, the soft breath blowing against
The back neck hairs of humanity, a lumbering heaviness boggs down the air itself,
Almost choking the life from all living things in the surrounding venue.
Excited the black birds take winged flight, soaring screeching, announcing it
Comes, it comes!!
Shuttering nature pulls its white snow covering over its very head, she even
Wishes not to see, this true face of evil that cometh forward, the ethereal trap
Door has been triggered, and what elopes onwards cannot be stopped by
Any powers on earth.
Blow does the trumpets of heaven, angels take to the winds of destiny, beckoning
The evil to with draw, but it mocks at them, screaming in a howling’s rebuking,
I listen not to the likes of thee!!
Then a light unseen for many a millennium comes forward, it is the light of
Everlasting salvation, then creature of darkness shall thee do battle with me,
Nay I will with draw, backwards from winnest it came it vaporizes and disappears.
In the woods there is a path, never to crossed by humanity, their thou shall not
Step, for the essence of evil’s cold chill still lingers, in the autumn chilling wind.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I’ve been haunting this old gothic
since nineteen eighty,
when I died from a brain tumor
at the age of sixty-three.
I cannot leave this antique home,
I am well-bound within,
must haunt it for one hundred years,
punishment for my sins.
See this is true purgatory,
how souls suffer for crimes,
not able to ascend upwards,
’till we’ve served out our time.
It is quite a strange sensation
to both be here and not,
in this world but not of it,
plays hell with the thoughts.
But it would be manageable,
’cause Heaven does await,
except that when I first got here
I made a dumb mistake.
Often when we first coalesce
we feel sorrow and pain,
death and intangibility
run havoc in our brain.
And in that supreme confusion
we can lash out in fear,
this is just what I did to all
people who came here.
Most of them ran off screaming,
what else can you expect?
But soon the word was spreading wife,
setting up what came next.
Tourists started to arrive here
to seek a glimpse of me,
and they always seem to get one
because, good folks, you see
that when a ghost touches the flesh
it gives us a hit of life,
drags us out of silent watching
into visible light.
That’s when the people can see us,
wispy shapes and glowing orbs,
the problem for us ghosties is
we’re always wanting more.
Like an addict of lifelong drunk,
the urge burns out-of-control,
a moment of what we have lost,
of what cold death has stole,
Feels better than the greatest high,
it beats out even sex,
instead of waiting here in peace,
we’re just left a jonsing wreck.
Maybe that’s part of our penance,
or maybe Satan’s sway,
all I know is I truly wish
I did not feel this way.
I wish people did not come here,
their presence tormenting,
we were once told death brought rest,
but I’ve felt no such thing.
Worse yet are the ghost-hunters
trying to record it,
a man’s afterlife should be more
than a way to turn profit.
If never did people come here
I would not have this strife,
I’d be at peace to think about
my family and wife.
I could focus on forever,
when I’d see them again,
not always be pulled back into
the lives of living men.
I’ve sixty-two more years of this
and it may cost me my mind,
I wish the living wouldn’t haunt me,
just let me do my time…
My Mistress, the Moon
From mine chamber, breathless and perspiring upon the bed,
I spy you there, out my window, looming overhead.
Your gaze, a silent arbiter in the night,
I cloak my naked shame, to veil my plight.
Reigning atop her celestial silver throne,
While I, lie with a lover not of my own,
Broken vows flee like ravens in the night,
And you, casting shadows of guilt in your light.
Glistening spectral tendrils adorn the wet cobblestone,
Where I and my lovely paramour have dared to roam.
With discreet footsteps, we clandestinely meet,
And you, with your enchanting freckled glow, how sweet.
Soft beams gently caress her alabaster cheek,
Lost in each other’s eyes, passionate and weak.
Reflected in her amorous gaze, I see your ethereal glow,
A witness to our sinful secrets, only you know.
Beneath the silvered shroud of your alluring gleam,
Our love, a surreptitious waltz in a moonlit dream.
In intimate whispers and fervent glance,
You orchestrate this forbidden romance.
The conductor of a symphony of sin,
Our affair, a soiled tapestry, unraveling from within.
In the dark chambers of my heart, you are the phantom spike,
The harbinger of this dreadful plight.
From my bed, to the window’s edge, I drew near,
An inquiring voice, “What troubles thee, my Dear”?
“’Tis naught, my Darling, j’st——the moon’s, cold stare”,
All the while, a laden heart, wrought with despair.
For my spirit is torn between duty and desire,
Engulfed by passion’s flames, intense blue fire.
From my window to the heavens, I plea my discontent,
To the pale blue eye above, I solemnly lament:
“O Moon, in thy spectral light aglow,
Release my soul’s despairing woe.
In thy celestial realm, I lay bare my sins,
Where shame deepens, and remorse’s tide begins.
Cast thy luminous gaze upon my plight,
Guide me towards redemption’s forgiving light.
For in thy ethereal embrace, I plead release,
From guilt’s relentless grip, grant me peace.
Lead me, O Moon, through this sinful night,
In thy mercy, permit my spirit respite.”
Beneath your fading glow, the whispers of love wane,
As I bid adieu to this fleeting masquerade,
Sun cresting the horizon, she reaches for the door,
The time has come, farewell my muse,
my lovely paramour.
-Edward