Long Horror Poems
Long Horror Poems. Below are the most popular long Horror by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Horror poems by poem length and keyword.
Destructors of Souls
Killers of the Spirit
Why is it ?, that man, the author, the painter, the sculptor,
the architect of women’s days, create her troubled nights.
Creates a world that strangles every innocent, true, emotion.
Creates emotions so twisted, so closed, that no one can get in.
Why does he write such horror into the story, for her life ?
Why are his paintings ?, demented images, in shade of gray ?
Why does he hammer away at her natural, naïve beauty ?,
creating an inhibited creature with his mallet and chisel !!!
Why does he draft plans, sketch images of dark buildings,
wherein she will hide, walk blindly for thirty years or more
carrying the weight of - she does not know, but it is wrong
and so she goes through life wondering why she is like ?
Why does the animal in man take precedence ?, come to the for
and obliterate the true nature, nurturing what kills from within.
Tear drops crystallize - in the corners of her eyes –
after the pressure of many, many years. of fears,
metamorphosed into a million diamonds, that reflect
the memories of - refracting experiences into a thousand shards,
of a mirror, that tapestry, of the lost innocence of a child
who lives in the shadows, always walking that last mile.
B. J. “A” 2
July 18th 2014
When drifting water of the river Hebrus murmurs
a heartrending cry surges from the bottom of the river,
and when this cry reaches the midsummer night’s sky
the stars echo and a lyre in the constellation by Zeus’ throne
plays sad music. And when tone adds pathos to deepen the darkness,
a nocturnal bird soars in the dark air, too, singing a sad song over
a grave in Libethra.
The reason the river weeps with a plaintive requiem is,
not because Erebus is too far or Styx is too wide,
but the stern ferryman denies Orpheus’ passage
to netherworld where he once passed with the crowds of the dead.
Although he once made the Furies cheeks wet with tears,
won a Proserpine’s sympathy and made Hades himself gave way,
why Orpheus has to cry a heartrending cry over Eurydice again
with his plaintive tuned lyre and song of touching story of his beloved wife?
It’s because he couldn’t cross Styx for second time.
He cried through the weeks of sleepless nights,
regretting why he turned his face back to assure
Eurydice followed, and therefore, heard her last cry of farewell.
He called Eurydice’s name for the weeks of agonizing days and
nights without food stretching his arms in air as if trying to hold her,
though she is not there.
Since his second farewell to his beloved wife on the dark and steep passage
of Erebus, Orpheus played his lyre and sang sad songs unceasingly. He sang
to tell his regretful experience on the way to this world at Erebus to the rocks
with melancholic but touching tunes, he chanted an account of the tragic life
he underwent with a gloomy but moving sound to the trees.
A viper, therefore, struck Eurydice with its sharp fangs again,
a horror that of the Maenads’ desire to capture Orpheus
tore him limb from limb.
And when the river murmurs, Orpheus’ limbs fell in water
parted from his body call to one another wishing to come in one again,
Orpheus’ keenness to see his beloved Eurydice grows more and more.
wing my loss) if grim reaper
came for das scribe as skew
ward poem attempted to infer, now
circling back to your queue
ped ditty linkedin with aforementioned
poppycock poo poo
merely a hypothetical premise aye drew
if my unexpected demise took place
husbanding half a motley crue
(ideally such unexpected tragedy
ideally tubby quick and painless)
without war ning, via internal bombardier
in tandem with luft waffe.
Sorry for rather somber tone -
but this psychological state
of yo dough less bro
affected by his reading,
autobiography coup (now, no idea titled tract)
d’état of Abraham Lincoln -
the author drew
my rapt attention (american history
strong interest) – whereby
past, present n near fee var few
chore wrenched with both
prized progeny persevering
(as they should) a path to hew
of their own making,
which steps toward emancipation
(worthy proclamation) for gentile or Jew,
these kindred (chromosomal byproducts
from countless chanced
genetic dice throws)
perhaps n uncle or aunt a bit loo
knee, perchance dna housed new
bile queen of the nile,
where (August) Caesar
didst hotly pursue
anyway....yes, lives of
deux darling daughters
un wii ting lee triggered flashback,
when self worth equaled zero
tricked, replayed, and generated
mine horror silent film
to rewind at nadir total fall out,
when anorexia nervosa did stew
underscore ring (four decades plus…) true
value of this moment colliding
with elapsing squandered
youth in rear view
mirror, unseen only
by ma doppelganger,
I now close with whew!
Upwards is his destination
Lost is his designation
No call from Stars above
No message of half-hearted love
Green reconnects with Red to combine
As our Smith relaxes his invisible spine
His journey so far has been to hone and refine
It is all he can muster, so far out of line
No matter his blindness, he saunters past
The Fire's Cot, mid-molten blast
Making Names wander, til' the Bellows blow
Up stairways, they travel, where our Smith now goes
Steep and coarse, the walkway is cobbled
Thrown together, stone and metal were knobbled
Though our Smith travels slowly with a slippery crawl
He soon gains some confidence, and takes steps, small
Almost like a snail with it's juice left behind
Our Smith leaves a trail a hunter could find
Green and Red splotches on a watery rind
Moving unbothered by secrets enshrined
He shivers and coils to the top of this 'case
Wriggling his body to scream from his face
"CaN i PlEaSe ReTuRn To ThE BoSs' GrAcE?!
i KnOw I'm NoT aLoNe In ThIs SpAcE!"
The steps begin to brightly glow
A clear departure from ash and shadow
The metal grey shifts to a sharpened Pink
"A fallen Smith is a missing Link."
The Winds of Wars
The winds of wars have shorn the shores where children once had played,
revealing bones of dead unknowns for whom the faithful’d prayed,
to no avail beneath the veil of death where rockets strayed,
for tit-for-tat is where it's at when war hawks’ eggs are laid.
The winds of wars destroy the moors, strew corpses’ burnt debris
which stains the staves that mark the graves (blest signs of victory)
where somber moms are sighing psalms while staring wistfully
upon the past before the blast that doomed their destiny.
The winds of wars clog corridors with folks in search of peace
because, outside, the genocide is giving no surcease;
‘But what the heck, it pays the check’, so say the world Police –
beneath the sky, they slice the pie, each hacking off a piece.
The winds of wars have wiped the floors with foes who won’t obey
(the bombs that fall are meant for all, the bodies ricochet) –
‘The carcass count may sadly mount’ the vanquishers will say,
while hiding facts of heinous acts neath verbal lingerie.
The winds of wars (soon metaphors for hellish deeds, though deeper)
have flattened schools (allowed by rules as written by the Reaper),
and brought despair beamed through the air (beware the booby beeper)
and, when they slay so faraway, make human life the cheaper.
The winds of wars have spread the spores that taint and mangle minds
with doublespeak and hide-and-seek that closes eyes and grinds
the passive pawns (once mowed like lawns) with servitude that binds,
and while the blight is holding tight, the wider world unwinds.
Postscript
The Wins of Wars
The wins of wars fill warlords’ drawers (some call it charity)
with yellow gold for weapons sold to kill the enemy
and purloined oil from conquered soil and tankers seized at sea –
the poor are billed to fund and build the wartime industry.
The wins of wars are won by whores who sell their souls with glee
and run amok to spend a buck (for killing’s never free)
and more and more they’ll arm for war (a spiraled spending spree)
until at last the warrior caste’s deposed and forced to flee.
SWISS CHEESE
The major connoisseurs of swiss cheese
as incredible as it may seem,
are not the Swiss basement rats.,
are the "voles" from the underground of the
politics....
THINKING OF BEING HAPPY
Just thinking of being happy, our hurried
friend tied the sorrows at the foot of the table,
he took a nap on the riverbed, and when
he woke up ... put his foot in the jackfruit, put
a jacket and went to party in heaven
mouth of the street ...
POLLUTION
The noise pollution is so intense,
the sound volume is so loud that
soon, soon, soon, soon there will be
queues of patients wanting to do
ear transplant ...
WEDDING
Marriage goes through several phases until
that comes to ending ... or not ...:
Initially marriage is a love movie.
Already at home living in two, it's drama ...
In the separation, it doesn't matter who is guilty,
it's either a comedy, or a horror movie ...!
the fear starts in my brain
frozen there for a moment
then starts creeping into my nerves
travelling down my arms and my legs
and soon my entire body is paralyzed
useless and powerless
now it journeys into my veins
up and up climbing
until it finds my heart
and fills me with terror
with horror
I have no escape
my survival is at stake
panic-stricken my fear is frantic
I am in a cold sweat
in a fluster and dizzy
then, I am
screaming
screaming
screaming
________________________
September 19, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/Fear Creeping
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1062-504-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Write Me An Emotion-Act
Sponsor, Brenda Chiri
Tenth Place
I am in a room
Watching people all around me
Change into hideous creatures
Monsters from the deepest depths of hell
The Chief of them all
Wears a Trumpian mask
Completed with orange hair
Half human half pig
His deputy
Wears the face of Putin
But his body
Half human, half horse
The other creatures wear masks
Many of them wear
Green Pepe the alt right
Symbolic frog masks
And have T shirts
Bearing alt right slogans
And Nazi symbols
And as they prance about
They chant alt. Right slogans
And neo Nazi chants
Jews with Not Replace us
And the rest of these creatures
Are hideous ugly beasts
With only a vestige of humanity left
And these monsters are engaged
In all sorts of foul evil deeds
Murder violence death
All around
And none-stop
violent drug fueled orgies
As these creatures
Half human half monsters
Half male, half female creatures
Snort coke, cocaine, speed
Smoke weed and drink vodka shots
Scotch, bourbon and beer
The Trumpian Pig leads the charge
Starts engaging in sodomy with Putin
Who chases after people
Cutting off their heads with his sword
They turn on to their fellow creatures
Raping and ing each other
All night long
Then they attack me
Screaming
Jews will not replace us
And I wake up
Screaming
As the sun comes up
Just another nightmare
Note: from a recent nightmare
Dear soil of the Earth,
please hide me. I'm the last one left!
I repeat once more, the last one left!
I have no legs to crawl and hide.
And I'm so easy to spot when I fall.
Squirrels with perked-up whiskers
pick up my scent. I'm a perennial
favorite of theirs, you see. I'm a snack...
they enjoy munching on. Or perhaps
more than a snack? Aren't I all they eat?
Let there be a gale so I'll be blown
far out of sight. I'm target no. 1!
Let there be a raging flood to
wash me away. Why do I always feel like
a sitting duck? God willing, I'll grow
into an oak tree before a squirrel finds me!
I hate feeling the sharp teeth of a rodent
digging into me. Oh, the anxiety! The horror!
The dreadful anticipation! What the hell
makes me so edible anyway? I have no taste!
Submitted for....
The Last 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Date written: 12/02/2020
Date originally written: 04/18/2020
Nunca parando el torrente de los aguas alucinógenos
Pensaba en huyendo
Con las alas desplegadas, me volaría
Subiendo de los nubes enormes y
Subiendo de los horrores debajo
Afuera de los sueños, no pudiera salir de mi jaula
La jaula en que lo vivo siempre,
Debajo los ojos malvados del Rey
Quien me dijo que dijera que él me poseyó y todavía me posee
No había nadie que pudiera salvarme de este inferno
Con las flamas que me lamían
Me besaban y me dejaban con marcas desconocidas
Quisiera ser nada, nunca, por siempre
Y desaparecer como la ceniza que me ahogaba
Por tanto tiempo
Me permito a quemar por el fuego
Y finalmente, volando,
Yo soy la ceniza