Long Graffiti Poems
Long Graffiti Poems. Below are the most popular long Graffiti by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Graffiti poems by poem length and keyword.
What do you see when you look at me?
Is it the COVID creators and kamikaze?
Does it cause rage and your blood boil?
Do you want me to just wrap food in foil?
Well if only you knew the burden we carry.
The judgement makes our life very scary.
Just because we know the martial arts.
Xenophobes show they have no hearts.
By damaging and boycotting our stores.
Graffiti phrases of shame on our doors.
Blaming us for events we did not partake.
Suffocating us like a giant python snake.
You did it to Arabs for the past 2 decades.
Cutting into their hearts like razor blades.
We remember our grandparents detained.
In WWII internment camps they remained.
The rate of racially motivated attacks.
Piling up medical bills in huge stacks.
Offenders don’t even verify the origin.
Willing to strike a parent’s next of kin.
Nationwide the frequency has tripled.
Through communities fear has rippled.
Let’s try to look past what you can see.
To lower Asian Americans new anxiety.
(The Hollow City Cycle include:
The Hollow City
I Remember You -- the city speaks
Last One Left)
They never saw me--
not fully.
Even when I begged them with my eyes,
or left poems scratched on alley walls
between peeling posters and prayer graffiti.
When they fled,
I stayed.
Not out of bravery,
but because I had nowhere else to go.
Now the city wears silence like a crown,
and I walk her streets like a loyal dog
chained to a ghost.
I sleep in shattered chapels
and drink rain from rusted fountains.
I whisper names to broken windows
just to hear the glass shiver.
At night,
I dance with shadows
that don’t know they’re gone.
I don’t know what I am anymore.
Not memory,
not mercy--
just the last heartbeat
in a place that has none.
Nobody listens to God anymore...
Even the pontiff has an ear of salt and stone.
Cherry-cheeked cherubs play frisbee with their halos.
The masses flaunt sinfulness like a cheap brooch.
As those four horsemen are surely approaching.
Our collective consciousness has crumbled into shadow.
Butterfly and finch song crushed into powder.
Nobody listens to God anymore~
They've made the creator into a comedic cliché.
Placed the nose of a clown on his pristine face.
With a sweep of graffiti sweet Mother Nature defiled. defaced.
Nobody listens to God anymore...
Until the scythe shuts Saint Peter's door.
Mind often makes a circuitous pilgrimage
Sliding down and going up the banisters of time
As I hear the grating sound of worn stairs behind
Memories come darting in and out of shadows
From childhood’s flamboyant days
Mind scuttles between the past and the present
Skipping over the bliss of buoyant youth
To life’s present weary days and to the future
Life’s train has sadly changed its track
Years, like torn pages have flown away
But the frivolous inner child pines
Obstinately for all that once held dear
I remember having run over plains n’ paddy fields
Trying to cut across their widening margins
Brushing past brambles and thickets
To chase butterflies that came to molest the lovely blooms
How I went on a search to meet the winged seraphs
That I heard, sang in chorus in Heaven’s gilded halls
Looked for God, amid scurrying clouds,
To slay the ghosts, I believed, hidden in my closet
I remember my youth of squandered passions
When I scrawled love’s graffiti on my mind’s wall
And carried my beloved’s picture in my mind
So flawless that no artist could ever conspire to alter.
Now I constantly wage a losing battle
Against forces that threaten to take away my calm
All I see is pain, death and human suffering
And life sadly getting lost in meaningless strife
Age has burdened me with a deadly weight
Fastening chains on my once supple feet
All I pray is – Don’t let me be a burden to anyone
And give me a mindset to accept all that comes my way
--------------------------------
April.13. 2023
Open Poetry. 6. Poetry Contest
Sponsor. Charlotte Puddifoot
Standing to fight
in the heart of the city
The jungles of asphalt
where neon flashes evil
as sidewalk dwellers
window shop hate
and find peace labeled “Not for sale”
I cling to my beliefs
in lamp post graffiti
Spray painted wishes
fading in color
and store owner nightmares,
defacing the brick walls with burnt flags
surrounding my very existence
Fear falls in pamphlet raindrops,
pages scattered
beyond the welcome mats
of big box politicians
in paisley ties
and pastel pant suits
shaking hands and scamming votes
Promises made
circled in cigar smoke and cheap eye shadow
fall on unsuspecting ears as truth
until the “sorry we’re closed” signs
spin in favor of loss…
opening for business
to the throngs of the thoughtless
I see their eyes, hollow,
faltering of sorrow as worry
becomes the next day’s problem
Reaching into my pocket I retrieve
the French braided wings you gave me…just in case
and I fly to be with you
Unable to face the fall…of humanity
A jackdaw is stealing
my tote bag of unused words,
a rodentlike kibitzer, a pecking dictator
of the worthiness of sounds.
If I run out of bullets now
he will take over my range,
blue-pencil my graffiti,
he will denounce me
as a purveyor of insensible languages,
a peddler of demonstrations
made for the amusement
of dabbling dilettantes.
Then I shall be defenseless.
I will have to render down
the fat of my mind
and when it is all as lean tree bark
it will be my own wickiup,
there I will wait
until he comes creeping again
into my larder, aiming to rob me
of my last cracked chicken bones,
my winter store
to make just a little broth
for my tongue.
I know why you follow him.
Dolls can never admit a rough and tumble
bad boy is what they want. In your stainless
steel world? There is no room for graffiti.
It simply isn’t okay for something to feel so
deliciously dirty. I promise you, I get it.
I know why you follow him.
Dolls never want the ones who are polished.
Until they are cracked in half by the guys
with unholy rough edges. Even then?
Nothing else but their blood can fill the
cracks. It’s a hell of a glitch of the mind.
I know why you follow him.
Baby doll, stalking is so much fun isn’t it?
Just imagine finding one exactly like him.
Honesty will lead you to the promise land.
But you’re content with a cuss and crush
session every time you read his poetry.
I know why you follow him.
Dolls get addicted to a fantasy so fast.
It’s a living breathing romance novel.
Will he? Could he? Does he really like that?
A twin flame and he’s so safely away.
But you get with his head every single day.
Baby doll I know why you follow him
because I follow him too.
The earth is dressed in a white robe - snow graffiti on the wall
Deliciously frozen thoughts melting away into another Kingdom
Our words served in gold of passion and sweetly kiss
Colour shines transparent
As the soft feeling of heated drops
tumble down the cheeks saving grace
The tears will fall on fertile soil, quietly the water decreases
There are no limitations so make your heart strong not weak
Fight your worries and sorrows - taste the love
Reflections kissing warmly each memory stored precious
Tasting salt upon lips
Because dearest lily of the deep lake
When a soul knows the unknown pathway leads upwards
We all have a special place in this world no one else can fill or walk alongside
Listen to the sound of angels playing harps from above
Smell the roses and breathe in the fresh clean air
True love from the heart of a flower never dies,
always giving goosebumps a new meaning
A Collaborated Poem
Anne-Lise Andresen and Liam Mc Daid
08.07.2016
(unrhymed couplets)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
My walls were once strong as if Theodosian
But now they're cracked and covered in graffiti
My ambition was once grand as if I was Justinian
But now my goal is to simply make it to tomorrow
Somehow I'm sitting here with Byzantine Blues
Sit with me and sift through the clues
I'm afraid I'm due for a collapse
As if it was 1453 perhaps
My beliefs were once stable and staunch
As if they came from the Patriarch of Constantinople
My friendships were once strong like a Byzantine army
But now I'm left sifting through phonies and fakes
And I'm still sitting here with Byzantine Blues
As ghosts walk among Orthodox pews
I'm afraid I'm due for a collapse
On my window the Grim Reaper taps
When dark clouds collide and
thunder erupts in shaken stares,
rains fall on unrelenting sorrows
along bramble thorn threads,
screaming leaves crash
into a frozen ground
of broken branches
and disgraced smiles . . .
as cardboard condos
dot the litter strewn landscape
and graffiti drips
in tobacco stained puddles
at the feet of those
standing in an endless line
for bits and scraps
of the life they once knew . . .
while sons and daughters
face the monsters drugged
by beliefs conjured
on sand blasted battlefields
and bibles of their own deciphering,
bridging the elongated gaps
between lies and promises by those
disguised in designer pantsuits
with fingers crossed
behind their backs . . .
and children have secrets thrust
upon them through filthy fingernails
hiding under bed frames
of rusted iron and disgusting touches,
silenced by the horror
of squeaking hinges
and foot steps in the hall,
crying for mothers who don’t believe . . .
the tears of a poet will be revealed,
bleeding through the page