Long Indented Poems
Long Indented Poems. Below are the most popular long Indented by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indented poems by poem length and keyword.
You tell me “I am too much,” as if your heart were a forbidden place, locked away,
As if feeling deeply were a wound that refuses to close beneath the vast sky.
But, darling, I crave the storm in you, the tempest hidden within your secret chest,
That wild, unbridled surge of emotions no one else dares to confront or embrace.
Let me drown in your chasms, wade through the deep shades of your silence,
Trace the flimsy map of your bruises, run my fingers over every indented rim,
Each splintered shard where the light has seeped out, yet beauty shines beyond despair.
If your love is a battlefield, then call me to arms, let me fight with desire and passion,
If it’s a fire, let me be consumed until only ash remains, a complete burning of my soul.
I have always yearned for a place fierce enough, raw enough,
A place that dares to measure the depth of what I feel,
A place that tests if my heart can stand unbroken,
Even in the heart of your storm, amidst your unrefined emotions.
And in this stream of consciousness, where thoughts flow like rivers of untamed desires,
I find myself floating among your waves, seeking to discover the true essence of love,
Where fear and courage entwine in a dance of shadows and eternal light,
Wondering if I will ever find a harbor in your storm, a refuge in your tumult.
But perhaps it is in this chaos of your emotions that I find beauty,
A beauty that cannot be tamed, that burns brighter than any setting star,
Drawing me in, like a dream that refuses to end, a dream that calls me back,
To lose myself and find myself again in your storm, to become a storm myself.
"A photograph is a moment frozen in time . . ."
It is a family gathering
in the photograph I have found
of me as a baby and my beautiful mother
holding me in her arms;
frozen in time . . .
she gazes down at me,
and there is such love in her eyes;
her skin is porcelain perfection,
frozen in time . . .
with cheeks a sweet blush
and lips a whisper of roses;
her raven hair brushed off her lovely face,
and I am in a pink dress
with a pink knitted sweater from grandma
and pink socks on chubby legs;
frozen in time . . .
I am porcelain too with cheeks blushed
and lips a whisper of roses and raven hair.
________________________________
September 4, 2019
Note: This is a form I have created called "The Photograph" Look at
a photograph that is meaningful to you and write about it in 3 verses
of 6 lines with one line being a short refrain placed somewhere in each
verse and is indented that also becomes your title. A quote is added.
The poem can be left aligned or centered. Keep the lines short and
medium length.
Narrative- Definition
A narrative is story-telling, in the form of a poem,
where events or accounts are chronicled throughout
the tale to the reader, or audience.
Poetry/Narrative/Frozen in Time
Copyright Protected, ID 19- 1178-834-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Write The Poem You Always Wanted To Write
sponsor, Caren Krutsinger
First Place
Helplessness seeks help in despondency
When resources slip out of porous hands
A tacit realization of innate inadequacy
Devours the dregs of impaired self-esteem.
The feeling sinks in the pool of pale psyche
Averse however to breathe the air of truth
Lies there unfelt in suspended animation
A state assiduously unaccepted by the mind.
The hostile wrecking winds are thwarted
By the helping hands morphing into shield
The needs are quenched like the arid thirst
By the cloud burst of benign magnanimity.
Time turns to flow in the course so desired
The legs that couldn’t walk a foot forward
If and whenever the hands are left unheld
Become boat sailing smooth in waveless sea.
Tides of time inundate the changed ethics
Latent self-respect floats on flood of sense
The bruised mind gets busy digging channel
For the repulsive memory to flow to oblivion.
The meagerness that created helplessness
Turns to debased maze of inferiority complex
A psychic makeover wangled by innate reflex
Produces odium and derision for the helper.
The helper then wonders in state of conundrum
If unvalued effort and dented intent are mislaid
On the ungrateful and the undeserving of help
For helplessness helps breed contempt in the end.
July 21, 2021
Contest : Word Play Poems With Play-On-Words Raison D'etre
Sponsor : John Anderson
Everything I do seems to find a way to mock me.
A jeering derision to the paradox of my delicacy.
Each impulsive haste of emotion knocks on the wood of my wretch.
A doleful stimulation to invigorate the louse of my lassitude.
The inertia of my cunning shrewd howls against the odium of my filth.
Against the odium of my haste.
The odium of my humility.
And the odium of my unadulterated abhorrence.
I find myself comparing the speckled illustrations of my masked exploitation.
One of a noble morality.
One of a sinful salvation.
And one of the reprehensible dignity I carry within the reality of my reviled anatomy.
The reality of my depiction.
The reality of my void.
Every word of degradation invokes the ice of my celestial petition.
A celestial plead for an implosion so grave; it dares to uphold a cathedral of my indented dejection.
My fortitude of a sunken dejection.
My poverty of an exiled dejection.
My deception of a gouged dejection.
I am nothing but the prolonged corpus of my own vile vulgarity;
I am nothing but the corrupted potency of my own induced pallet;
I am nothing but the misdemeanour of my own cholerised pertinence.
Over the hillsides, together we burned space and time
Galloping with the wind...
Clouds took me by the hand,
Wind took you by the mane
Nothing outside our world could rival this perfect blend
Of motion, devotion, the sunshine and scented rain
I would close my eyes, and trust in the rhythm's rise
O' beautiful creature, your movements touched the very sky
Every stride, would sweep me to another world
Unfurled so far from all my childhood fears
As runaway dreamers,
we sprinted into the future of timeless memory
and heard the infinite past at the heels of your enchanted hoof
Where ancestors once felt this very connection
At one with nature, a blending of what is blessed
In the deep evening light of the first early, wintery chill,
as a comet that shoots through the eye of an in-coming storm
We were crystals, encased in a layer of ice and love
Just a trace of a moon, that sailed between the soft, leaden clouds
In the thrill of the cold, with the glorious snowflakes falling,
and the sight of your warm breath streaming,
there was white drifting smoke, in caress of the moonlight beaming
Indented, undefined, is a trail left behind
Such a moment is proof.... in all legends divine
That when snow falls around the hills, at the end of the day,
Nothing can erase that we passed this way
We were the messengers...that rode with the wind
That the hearts of species as wide as the universe
With spirits connecting two souls as one
Hearts can beat as one....drawn together, like poetic and timeless music
I am part of you....and you are part of me
And that both hearts can feel the same remorse when day is done
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In memory of "Queenie".... an amazing Sorrel Quarterhorse,
For the Contest: "PETS", sponsored by Shadow Hamilton 11/13/14
My eyes swim up from a tangled seaweed
of long forgotten data.
Now I remember that instead of going home
I stayed on at that topless bar.
I am unprepared for future-shock, ill-equipped
to decipher questions, that like shaggy owls
hoot in a darkening lecture hall.
I used to panic myself awake at such times
but this reoccurring dream has become a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting pants-down moment.
I have been dreaming
of my post-graduate thesis
it rides still on a city bus,
where I carelessly left it.
Passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the unfinished manuscript
is deeply indented with butt cheeks.
Passed the old church at midnight
Night time dark, damp and windy
Thoughts about coming home to a warm bed
Hear sounds from the bushes and trees
Glimpsing human shadows
They move slowly and very quiet
The wind comes against me with a rotten smell
The smell is indescribable nauseating
The lights of a car further down the street
gives me a cruel picture
Three human figures indented and rotting faces
Apathetic and dull but driven by the will to kill
The car is advancing by my side, the driver he knows he's seen it before
Zombies love this place at midnight
Never go here alone on the night of Halloween
Who has not heard of it ....
I can still smell the rotten smell
Sponsor Leonora Galinta
Contest Name Halloween Poem Contest with Only 1 theme.
15.10.2013
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(2nd place in the contest)
At times it gets hard to talk.
Instead of rambling about anything.
Most times I sit without saying a word.
Just sitting in thought.
Most times different conclusions are drawn.
This at all doesn't mean that anything is wrong.
Sitting in silence.
Admiring the space around.
Different noises are heard.
Finding their way between the lines.
Indented in brief moments.
Spurts of randomness.
Wadded up thrown to the side to make room for the next moment.
Often left blank.
Without a single use of expression.
Without a trail of lead or ink.
Just empty lines stacked and spread across a thin layer of cardboard.
An bent aluminum spine.
All stacked up waiting for a love worthy of notation.
Signatures of fluttering pages.
Familiar names and phrases.
Blank pages filled up in a parade of paragraphs.
If you listen close you'll hear the band tuning up.
Marching down empty lanes marked just for the occasion.
Inside there are large bold words filled with tubas and small lines felt with the mark of snares.
The procession of pen to paper.
In proclamation to one of the greatest loves ever found.
Sold in two different packages.
All in perfect silence as they travel down the same lane
The last time I went to the beach
Watching my grandson play
He was caught by rogue wave
Was being pulled out of the way
I tried to run through waist deep
Water, to pull him safely in
Just had grabbed into my clinch
When a horrible a pain did begin
I was sure something humongous
That had bitten me
Shark had to be his name
I screamed and let go and no one came
I ran to get the child again
Even though I was in terrible pain
Just as I had him in my grip
The thing bit me again
I held on this time
Dared to not let go
In horrendous pain
I pulled him safely to the shore
When I got out of the water
The pain was even worse
I went back and washed
In the sea water to try to ease the hurt
We evetually got to a pharmacy
To see what they suggest
He gave me some medicine
With which to keep the places wet
The lesson that I learned from this
Be careful at the beach
Because there could be something lurking
Just under your feet
(It was a jelly fish which I never saw and he stung me twice. I had places on my thighs and
both lower legs. To this day I have an indented place on my lower leg where I guess the skin
was digested by the poison. Two weeks after it happened I shaved my legs and the intense
pain started again and I had to go to an emergency room. I had to have shots cortizone and
dose packs and anti-itch creams and antibiotics. This was no fun. I do not have an
understanding husband and this was one of those hurts that was in the poem "Unloved".)
Form:
As of 20-10-2014 this poem had 270 views and zero comments. I have poems with 30 views that have 3-5 comments. Everyone here is too kind to comment because this poem S***S!
alone, leaving the hospital in the early light
he could feel his blood pulsing
as he dove deep into his conscious thought.
it was like him to wallow in self pity. she was his paid companion.
she would smother him as if he owned her and he did.
this sunup he would have her strip him of his last rag of dignity.
soaking wet in his own shame she neatly placed him in her mouth.
he would gaze into the abyss of his own ineptness
his shaking hands hanging on unsuccessfully.
still he forcefully tears
the clothes off of her non existence
alone and chaotic he ran her through a series of perverse acts
and cleansed his flesh and bone of all evidence of human sanity.
he could feel his intricate
and complex network of exposed capillaries and veins melt.
his naked carcass enrobed in the stench of his own pathetic existence.
all along he fed on the salt that flowed down his
cheeks and found their way to his tongue.
his head lowered. his shoulders bent.
his pelvis indented. his legs unsteadied.
what was once meant to be a man now plodded
to the cadence to the progression of a soundless beat.
reaching his car he turns his keys.
he hears the hum of his engine
as he heads for the safety of his home.
what?
he wonders as he hears a voice.
as he hears his name
once. twice and again and again
he tries to ignore it but his eyes slowly open
a nurse. a bed. he is trapped. he is still in hospital.
what a cruel joke. he was sure.
he was sure he had heard the hum of his engine.