Long Handwriting Poems
Long Handwriting Poems. Below are the most popular long Handwriting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Handwriting poems by poem length and keyword.
I wear your handwriting
like a chain of snake bites
all around my hot, vulnerable body,
the poison is not wrong,
it is beauty to the bone,
tender on the flesh,
love in bleeding song,
I learned to stop fighting,
in the ecstacy of the smooth writhing,
Your unwavering dialect delved
into the core of me, relentlessly,
you taught me an erotic braile unveiled,
you've been naked in my blood stream
with a whispering scream,
revealing the soul of Poetry,
We have discovered the sweet
torture of destiny,
we feed one another ambrosia
not of mere flesh
but of desire fresh,
a passion born of purgatory hysteria,
I lick your lines
as if they are lifelines
to life with no sins,
you are my sex with no regrets,
you are my Angel through days complex,
Your fangs be flames
that nestle my heart beyond love crimes,
you are my joy,
You are my wicked divine Princess -
J.A.B.
The horizon is a blade—
it glints whether I run toward it
or watch it withdraw.
Each dawn splits me open,
spilling a slow trickle of salt,
as if the sea is feeding me to itself,
one grain at a time.
I know the undertow’s handwriting—
it pulls not to drown,
but to measure how far my lungs will stretch.
Even in absence,
the shore presses its ghost lips
to the soles of my feet,
branding me with wet fire.
The days arrive like heavy-winged birds,
falling or flying—it makes no difference.
Either I am lifted
or I am stitched to the air by wanting.
Both keep me in motion.
So tell me—
how could I curse the water
when even the ebb feels like an arrival,
and every hunger it leaves behind
is proof my compass still works?
I found the first letter under my pillow,
in ink I recognized before I recognized the words
my own hand, but steadier.
Braver, somehow, in the loops of the y.
Dear diary, it began, in my handwriting,
though I keep no diary that anyone else could find.
It knew things I'd only thought at 2a.m.
It knew the name I never say out loud.
I caught it once, in the lamp-light,
bent over my desk in the shape of me,
holding a pen the way I hold a pen,
writing something I would never have the nerve to send.
I didn't stop it.
I think some part of me left the desk lamp on
on purpose, that night
some part of me that wanted to be spoken for.
It signs my name better than I do now.
No hesitation in the final stroke.
No crossing out. No starting over.
Just my name, sent, sealed, and meant.
Last week I found the final letter,
already folded, already addressed
to the one person I never worked up the courage to tell.
At the bottom, in handwriting identical to mine, it said:
I am you, but the part of you that stopped waiting.
I hope you don't mind. I already dropped it in the mailbox.
By the time you read this,
it will already be theirs.
Seems my handwriting will never improve,
Yearlong efforts, letters still oblong.
Not quite right, but we pretend it’s not all bad,
I fixate on each line, a prerequisite approach.
So next and then that line and its spacing, proper
striving for excellence, sentence, cursed to find
some semblance, a distant echo. Earshot.
Eardrum. POP!
Outward rang disdain, my reality indifferent,
Marks resembling a bell curve in chicken sketch,
It distorts my outlook, tarnishes self-image.
I try with practice sheets laid out,
Only to be reminded of the horrors I scrawl within.
Devastating, humiliating,
Suppressing nausea,
Sick of this, hating my own thoughts,
Ruining half-decent poems or ideas.
Regardless of merit or talent shown,
sent into the fire.
scribe on restroom walls
its contrived and
makes me writhe.
I discard writing tools,
My creative well runs dry, deceased,
Gone, past tense, already done in.
Progress slower than a snail,
with kidney failures
Skull soon exposed.
I’ll tear at my scalp,
Writing used to be fun.
You'll say, 'shut my trap'.
The torment I hold towards
every pen, pencil, or marker on any shelf.
Chasing after graphite,
specific utensils, lead grade, ink, acrylic,
I want them gone, obliterated,
Every trace, every hint.
EXTINGUISHED EVERY PEICE OF
. . .
Sorry, I get carried away...
This heretic! The disappointment,
Frail and brittle behind every attempt.
All result in zero, void, null, nil.
Here I sit, head in hands,
My task forever incomplete,
More setbacks, my drive
and desire to compete.
Now I understand why progress is elusive, unseen.
Hard-scoped when each step shown seems hopeless
rooted in the waste of regression.
I would be remiss if my speech lacked spirit.
Results: Inconclusive
Next topic: I digress,
I relinquish anima,
Lay to rest a thousand eyes’ constraints,
Seeking arrangements through attainment.
If there's space to graze, then seize the day.
Something bountiful in the invisible,
Nature's beauty in the winds of change,
Wrinkles on sheets of belief,
A moment for molecules deem insignificant,
Nested in the fabric of space-time,
An embarrassment that's all mine,
It is really all fine.
Signed, A construct for mortality.
I was raised from brick and limestone pride
in the year 1900—broad-shouldered, square-jawed,
built to guard coins like a stoic sentinel.
Back then, people entered with hats in hand,
voices hushed, boots dusted from the road,
hope tucked carefully in their coat pockets.
I watched farmers deposit the year’s sweat,
watched widows count bills twice,
watched young men borrow for a first horse,
watched shopkeepers tuck away dreams
in ledgers neat as Sunday handwriting.
Then came the roaring years~
silk dresses, quick fortunes,
men who swaggered in with cigars
and left with loans larger than their sense.
I felt the tremor of every risk.
The Depression arrived like a cold wind.
People lined my lobby with hollow eyes,
asking if their savings still breathed.
I held my breath with them,
my vault colder than winter stone.
Decades rolled on.
Checks replaced coins.
Cards replaced checks.
Screens replaced tellers.
Now people tap glass rectangles
as if money were a rumor
whispered by electricity.
I’ve seen prosperity, panic,
jubilation, war, ruin, reinvention~
and through it all,
I’ve stood here,
a witness of every transaction
of hope and fear.
Yet even now, when someone steps inside
to ask about a loan, a future, a chance,
I feel the old pulse stir in my beams~
that familiar tremor of human hope
seeking shelter in my stone.
A century has worn me smooth,
but I remain what I was built to be:
a keeper of stories,
and a witness to want.
In the basement of our house
Was a workshop
Of gray tools
And the smell of 3-in-1 oil
There under the steady glare
Of florescent lighting
My father
Worked.
Whenever he called me downstairs
It was to talk
About something important
Or a mistake I made
After every few sentences
He would adjust his glasses
And pause
To make sure I understood every word he said
A habit
He had until the day he died.
Speaking with determination
He told me never to lie
You may think people don't listen
He said
But inside they do
The mind
Works
Like a sponge
It remembers everything
Even when we get tired and forget.
So remember
Nobody likes a liar.
I first saw Susan walking
Down the street
Head held high
Graceful
I tried catching up with her
But she was quicker
Than I was
We met again when she dropped her keys
Picking them up
I told her
She was the most beautiful woman I ever met
A slight exaggeration
An innocent white lie
But a lie nevertheless.
Soon we were together
Clothes on
Clothes off
The new found
Thrill
Of intimacy
Was intoxicating.
In small bits
Day by day
Freedom evaporated
And our lives
Became hopelessly twisted
In an undertow
Of life, money,
Apartment
Problems and future
I wasn't honest with myself
And deep down inside
I never knew
What I was hiding
Or how fragile a relationship could be.
One night she asked if I knew
Anything about roses
I barely stammered a what?
Roses symbolize love, sympathy and
Elegant beauty
She said
But they're one of the most fragile flowers
Ever
They can turn brown and die
From a chill in the air.
I fell asleep on the couch that night
Getting up in the morning
I saw the made up bed
And in the kitchen
Nestled between coffee and sugar
Was an envelope
With my name
Scrawled in clear
Bold handwriting
My hands shook
As I reached for the envelope
The urge
To leave it unread
Was strong
Until suddenly, I tore it open
And read it through
From top to bottom
Over and over again.
Catching my breathe I sat down
Enfolded
In the strange quiet
Of an empty apartment
Wondering how different things might have been
Had I not told white lies.
I'm holding your letters, here in my hand
Each word is wrapped in cursive swirls
Of trembling, eloquent, handwriting...
You shared your life with me...
A gift of yourself, like little grains of sparkling sand...
Slipping through my open fingers
But, it's only now.... that I fully understand...
They were small chapters, and stories....detailed accounts...
of a picture you framed,
a flower you grew, a morning of mauve,...
a dress you made, a puzzle you solved...
or the rains that quickly came, then disappeared...
A little life, a simple day, so quickly came, and left....through fading years....
Snippets of a life that seemed unremarkable, too easily dismissed
Until you were gone.
Until I missed you...
Until I began to realize
that I wouldn't have a second chance...
another day, to pay closer attention, ...
to ask more questions,...to show more interest
to look deeper into your eyes,
those eyes of experience, clarity...
kindness and charity...
so filled with the wisdom of age
....before the page of love had closed....
Your caring, ...your patience,...your understanding....
That in my neglectful ways,
I thought would always be....
These letters I hold in my hand,
ending with words of love.....
that perhaps, I didn't really deserve
That only now, I've truly heard....
By Carrie Richards
______________________________________
As I saw you for the first time
Our eyes got locked in an instant
I don’t know what feelings flashed past me then
All I knew, I was gripped by a strange restlessness
Was it a feeling of pleasant ache or rising mirth?
Standing befuddled, I forgot myself and stood lost.
Coming back to the real world, you were gone
Why did my heart miss a beat all of a sudden
As if I was denuded of a beautiful moment.
The next time I met you
The world shrunk into a small ball
Where only you and I existed.
Overwhelmed by the language in your eyes,
A language so fluent in silence, I stood,
Inhaling the sweet scent around you.
Your every expression suggested a love reciprocal.
My eager eyes found their way up scanning you
From foot to crown when you stood close to me.
On looking at you with a possessive glance,
A wild desire unfurled in me like the petals of a rose.
As our meetings grew more frequent,
You arched like a lovely rainbow
In my blank grey sky, once devoid of all color.
You came into my life not with sound,
But with the silence of a dew drop
That sticks to the blade of a leaf, glistening.
When sun sets and the world wraps in darkness,
When everyone withdraws to silent repose,
I remain awake, sometimes the whole night
Dreaming of you trying to decode every expression
That fleets past your sentient face.
I wonder what thoughts play back in your head
When you sit alone in your leisurely hours!
Do you ever dream of me or of our lovely moments together?
How I wish to suck the nectar from your lips,
As a bumble bee that digs deep into the corolla
Of a blood red aster and emerge jubilant
With pollen stuck close to its hairy body!
Now as a tattoo I wear your handwriting
On my palms for all the world to see.
When you are away, I miss you to the very core.
In the silence of the night, when the stars,
Amorously congregate around the waning moon,
I burn with desire that grows unsatiated
And I script my passions of romance
On the heaving chest of a white paper, I hold.
I Wear Your Handwriting
I don’t need to open the letter,
I need the quiet
Light touch
You standing behind me, but
This is a very faded memory.
I don’t need to open the letter,
Because I know that the words inside
Will be a strange poem
A poem about knowing and awareness
About behavior.
I waited a day to open the letter,
I read it once and folded it -
Put it back in the envelope, not ready to try to understand.
The chances of a man ever touching me again
With love, the kind where the man
Would write me a poem and say
Yes, I take you back
The divorce was a phase,
A a ten year wormhole to this place now: 2026,
Where I love you even more than all the decades before.
The poem in the letter says:
I love you. Let's share our houses!
No, it doesn’t!
This is what the letter really says:
It quotes G.I. Joe and says,
“Knowing is half the battle. Now you know.”
But you don’t say what you know
Or what I should know.
I wear your handwriting,
I have all the letters and cards you’ve given to me since 1982,
I wear your handwriting, because that is all there is now,
You’re gone, even though you are still alive.
I will always have your letters, and
No matter where I go in the future without you,
Always wandering, a lost fool,
There will never be a day in my life that I don’t wear your handwriting
As you are the only person who has ever loved me.
And I set off,
on this journey of writing
It seems impossible but exciting
I am Imagining, who is going to be my victim
The one who will read my handwriting
Well, problem solved, thanks to typing
I cannot wait any longer
Nothing can contain this hunger
I have to start jotting them down
Looking at different subjects at dawn
There are a lot of untold stories,
but as I start to put pen to paper, they vanish
In these parts of the world,
reading is mostly to pass examinations
They would rather hear it than read
Only a few have value for reading
So who will I write for?
For now I will write for the diary
For the many reasons it is unattainable
are the same reasons it is achievable
It must be written for it to be read
I had learnt to draw patterns
before I could comprehend the meaning
Before writing becomes meaningful
I must embrace reading.