Long Horrid Poems
Long Horrid Poems. Below are the most popular long Horrid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Horrid poems by poem length and keyword.
You give me words, such beautiful words
That set me free, set me free from despondency
I’m like captive birds in mere captivity
Change is a challenging chore, baby
Do you regret, almost blackmailing me?
Do you regret it all?
All I can do is stand tall
You stole my heart’s melody
I can see it so close, so near
That you are not near me…
But, I don’t need to feel any kind of fear
My dear,
I’m here
Even if you aren’t…
I don’t have to feel any fear
For God is on my side
I want to hold you close, my dear
Till the very end of time
You said you’d be my cure, my cure, my cure
To my horrid bipolar that always draws near
You said you’d be my cure, my cure, we will endure
So far, I’m far, yet so close to you, my lonely dear
You’re a lonely ghost
You’re a lonely ghost
All you do is boast
And I cry myself to sleep at night
That’s the most I can do…
While I take flight and fight the good fight
I am still loving you so true…
You stole my heart’s melody
I can see it so close, so near
That you are not near me…
But, I don’t need to feel any kind of fear
My dear,
I’m here
Even if you aren’t…
I don’t have to feel any fear
For God is on my side
I want to hold you close, my dear
Till the very end of time
You said you’d be my cure, my cure, my cure
To my horrid bipolar that always draws near
You said you’d be my cure, my cure, we will endure
So far, I’m far, yet so close to you, my lonely dear
Despondency’s hold
Got a hold of me so bold
Captivity’s spell
Got me spiralling in my cell
You said you’d be my cure, my cure, my cure
To everything negative
You said you’d be my cure to my bipolar and I’ll endure
Till the end, I will live…
There is a Guantanamo Bay like facility,
that has a bed with my name on it guaranteed,
along with 1 million natural born americans in and outside my country.
We are all on the government watch list and we are all indeed guilty,
of exercising our inalienable right to freedom of speech.
Somewhere along the way that became terrorist activity,
at least that's what The Patriot Act has led everyone to believe.
If the rest of my life is to be spent in such an environment
where enhanced interrogation is practiced like some sort of religion,
and where I'd be subject to any kind of horrid experimentation,
you better believe that I will kill myself at the first opportune moment.
Sometimes suicide is the only option,
and in such a scenario like the above warrants justification.
Home is where the heart is they say...
Over the feeling of breaking apart today
My horrid hardships are like ships at bay
Essential essence of elegance emerge into effulgent efflorescence, I pray
Love will eventually conquer all our way
End the sorrow in our hearts day by day
Surreal serenity ashore hasn’t led me astray
Son of God saved me from hurting myself and he stays near my side like a kid with clay
I see a light of beauty and grace
Never felt negativity in His face
Hopeless as a harp string out of reach
Empty as a drum, yet strumming like a guitar in a gathering at the beach
Angst and anger erupt inside my mind...left me blind for so long — love is what I beseech
Road of recovery is far from here, for I’m homeless in heart for those who are of need and those who can’t speak their freedom speech
Tranquility and tribulation clash and teacher of the darkness — practice what you preach!
I was an awkward teenager
seeking her truth
My friend and I would write
love poems about our heart throbs
The pen indeed back then
remained my most trusted confidante
Years went by I grew up
and life got crazy busy
The old poems laid stashed
somewhere in a forgotten corner
It wasn't till I retired that
I happened to be at a poetry reading
I listened most politely while
squirming at how it was simply horrid
That's when I decided
to dust off and revisit my oldies
I then found a site online of
likeminded poets
and never looked back
AP: 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2022
All hope lost in his hunchback.
All hope lost for love.
All love conveyed as mercy.
All mercy a convenient lie.
Attack! Attack!
“Don’t worry, dear Anne,
I have your back.
I pity you!
You’ve lost your husband
and your father.”
“Marry me! I will take care of you.”
He lusts! He must
have her for his wife.
She’s smart; he smarts
from a reddened face.
He wants all her beauty to himself.
What lies! She could have killed him
with his sword. More swords
are stabbing in intrigues, in shadows,
in towers, no mistake.
Did not Cain begin this tale
of brother against brother!
Did not Cain’s blood-jealousy
crown king after king?
Chilling, still more childish,
in the hands of the devil himself,
the innocent. Henchmen
tower over the young princes,
to do the devil’s work.
Die! Death, destruction and lies
belong to the prince of darkness.
He couldn’t, dared not
even look into their eyes.
More eyes’ closed upon a platter;
the splatter of a royal-red robe;
behold its Belial train.
Meanwhile Anne despairs
of such a horrid cradle that held
horrors for her beloved boys.
For three crimes, even four -
using the sword on a brother,
life with no compassion,
incessant rage* - what more
does the merciful and just Lord
need to see? The house will fall.
Haunted.
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to complete the enigmatic shed of my skin.
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to morph into the holes of my heart.
Maybe that’s an articulation grave enough to bless my bones with the wonderous glory of my eternal rage.
I find myself bathing in the security of my tomb.
Its gravelly, grey walls are scarred with the calamity of my name.
Each piece of rubble rains down on me, a wary desire to drown in the beauty of my dearth, as if the void were the very answer to all the cries of inexorable solitude.
Each making of atom questions the horrid recalling of their parturition from the detrimental violence of my intestines, as if the food I forget to eat reminisces the metallic tang of fear that follows with every swallow.
Each continuous fade of my body morphs into a pathetic attempt to forget the corners my limbs were pushed into, as if the oxygen in my lungs understand the significance of a survival sustained to own the capacity of an exhale.
The bloodline of my making stares back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to extract the despair of their DNA.
The hatred of my bones stare back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to outgrow the isolation of my warren.
The residues of my ruins stare back at me; I wonder if it’s possible to dive into the destruction of its voices.
And as my shoulders slump in defeat, the only thing that lingers is the pondering wonder if I will ever be blessed with the tedious bore of normality.
I never possessed time.
Time that I would call my own.
You see, amidst a broken heart.
I had heard a friend cry.
She said her own heart had been broken.
So I listened, counselled and wiped away her tears.
There was no time to sit and feel sorry for myself.
With a broken thumb.
A pounding headache.
A hard day at work.
I wanted a hot bath and cup of coffee.
To lay me down, I took a couple of pain killers.
But you see, amidst fatigue.
I had heard a cousin sob.
She said she had lost her job.
So I listened, counselled and wiped away her tears.
There was no time to sit and nurse my tiredness.
With a heavy heart upon seeing an accident.
A horrid image in my head that I had to let out.
I went looking for my best friend.
But I had heard her cry.
She said she was not happy in her life.
So I listened, embraced and wiped away tears.
There was no time to share and offload.
With yet another broken heart.
I had told myself to cry and shut it down for once.
I had planned to watch sad movies.
With a box of Kleenex by my side.
But you see, amidst another heart break.
I had heard a sibling cry.
She said she had hurt a person unintentionally.
So I listened, counselled and wiped away her tears.
There was no time to cry and weigh down my feelings.
With a torchlight.
I had decided to do my favorite thing.
On a warm summer evening.
Walk about the park and listen to the night.
Amidst my time of reflection, I had heard a close kin cry.
She said, her husband had cheated and had another child.
So I listened, embraced and wiped away tears
There was no time for me to reflect.
I never possess time.
I don’t think I will ever possess time to myself.
But you see, that’s okay.
I have made my peace with it.
So I guess that’s what someone meant when they told me:
“Straighten up soldier, There is never time to cry”
© Herzel Poshiwa
Death is dead now in the pleasant lap of the Immortality.
It seems to sleep in peace, not having slept for thus long.
It is tired now after dying so many times, deadly drained.
The horrid Death appears a naughty child, now, subdued.
Its red awful eyes have sunk in soothed shade of eyelids
And its raw sharp teeth are shut within the freezing lips.
Its soul-less abstract figurine now lounges with a shape
As its quenchless vengeance on Life finished in its death.
Death is dead now, it will wake no more, not any more.
Life has reborn in deathlessness, Death shrunk into Life.
It was the end of the beginning that had certainly begun.
It is the beginning of the end, the ending devoid of end.
Jane, my former fellow-worker friend, who lives in Carmel-By-The-Sea, and had been visited by many of us from work.
Gleaning Clint as a third invitee at His Hog's Breath Cafe/Tavern, thanks to Jane<--impetus of my 114 miles (228 miles in total, down/up) drive from my San Francisco home, with the added feature, aside from Clint, is California's central coastline drive ... ala incredible folks.
It's been some time since the store episode/trapped-i/epic-sword, in-back at home recovering.
My phone rang during days that it did, of horrid prices and matching service, hmm--half a second or half a century.
Anyhow, tis Jane calling for a special invite to The Grand as her creative date/Clint cancelled last minute as he found her to be his perfect catch at 21 ... to a catch 22, so the lamb pulled out of the bag and clawed me.
Animal of the Night
The animal of the night has an evil courage as its defense,
And with simple lies it now catches the filthy beast easily,
And can now stand and bask in God’s purest of sunshine,
Whilst valor and glory speak all power to one’s destiny!
Darkness doth now pervade and drinks slowly from that
“Chalice of the Faithless Heathen” who hides among the
Soulless Ones who are consumed by their hateful actions,
And spit thoughtlessly at your good will and human pride!
Hades’ very own dark demons tilt their evil night shades
While justifying the hurt and depravity of an “Ugly Brute”;
A truly lost soul without any mercy, blind—as “He” throws
Freely a nasty spiteful spirit on your earthly fire of reality!
Hence, Hades’ mark and mask of utter darkness and terror
Descend now into the very conscience of your Spirit World;
Burning hot with the force of “The Furies” seeking revenge:
Tisiphone, Megaera, and Alecto all appear sans Merci now!
As their eternal gorgonesque spirits creep upon you furtively,
Your once handsome visage turns into a sad and horrid portrait
Of an old animal soul in the mirror never to see the Light again,
As clouds darkly shade your horizon and fate in Hades’ name!
In this eternal land of darkness, the dead do not suffer this fate
So easily, and cast not without honor in their chains the notion
That fear itself, vice destiny, cries out now for your forgiveness,
As One-Eyed Beggars seek and see the basic good within you!
Each day now fades into its own doom, into a dark mist of evil,
And hides carefully inside a “Mountain of Consciousness” where
Your ethereal spirit knows who you really are—as black snakes
slither slowly and silently toward your spirit-mirrored reflection!
You—that “Animal of the Night,” wear now your deceptive mask;
The reality of who and what you really are makes my skin crawl!
You can never return from this darkest “Pit of Hell” my old friend,
For thy animal-human spirit is doomed to all this darkness forever!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 22, 2015
(Narrative Quatrain)