Long Indents Poems
Long Indents Poems. Below are the most popular long Indents by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indents poems by poem length and keyword.
Self doubt and self confidence
are a result of your environment
so is happiness so is depression
undoubtedly the influence
of everyday events
subjective oppression or pressure
those days which are intense
they build or make you lesser
yet both leave their indents
be it humiliated failure
or success beyond your sense
will add or chip at layers
become what one expects
but you can change the flavour
the same way light deflects
make yourself the stranger
rid of your defects
the change is but a drainer
but not of intellect
on spirit put this strainer
don't give in to stress
the scope stays as your aimer
walk on nonetheless
and you will be the victor
who made yourself your best
I am a follower not a leader
I am a duplicate
A clone of another
I follow other instincts before my own
Results in life
Concluded that i will
Tear and dig into myself trying
To find something worth keeping
As if i were to find something hiding beneath the
Surface of the Dirt in the earth
Rotten and old
Like an old dog bone left unwanted with
Scars and indents left evident on the surface
Results of societies
Change the way we vision our reality
I change inside and take the steps needed
To become that expectation
While not noticing all the harm that has already been done
At the end of the day
No challenge has actually been won
These challenges results in fear or failure
I alone observe the
Past and wonder why i believe in such said.
Protocols i have inhabited in my head.
a house abandoned
walls caved in
the windows no panes
and the floors creek
yet still a spark of beauty
flawed and few
nothing inbetween
i stay reflecting on the past…
it used to be thriving
full of life
kids playing, people residing
the memories the walls hold
indents of several souls
the history of not one but two,
i take a step back
a dark shadow sweeps through
i slowly watch the rug unroll
its clearer now,
a story unfolds
the faint echo of screaming
and the vision of blood shot eyes gleaming
tear stained curtains rip off the wall
the cracks aren’t just age,
they’re scars, i withdrawal
the hands of man destroyed her beauty
left her falling apart, while neglecting his duty’s
i can’t help but think
she’s stayed so strong throughout the years
still standing tall despite hers scars and constant fear
but,
she’s abandoned now, all withered and torn
at the hands of a man she once adorned
but beneath the surface her foundation stayed strong
it’s the beauty within that’s made her last this long.
There, my eyes fixed on the yellow paving stone.
Amongst a slightly tangled dandelion leaf is a
little purple demon staring back at me.
Just stood casually as the suns rays continue
to bounce vividly off the heated ground.
I notice those pointed eyes all sharp and looking frightened,
that I might disrupt his peaceful unity with the warm breeze.
I won't, but I'll remain enchanted by such presence.
His gold earrings reflect many colours of the passing day,
as they appear all the way up those elongated ears.
A tiny ruby shines from a chain around his neck
and there I see the hour glass dangling unthreateningly.
The indents of aged muscle mould above his chest bone
to form perfect pectorals. On each tiny nipple is another hoop;
only, they are bronze in appearance, almost wilting in their achingness.
I'm overwhelmed as I thought I recognised the curling of his mouth,
a smile for me. I smile back uncertain if he would think I am afraid.
Then his sharp ivory teeth poke out and I know I have done a good thing.
The greens of his emerald eyes enlighten the evilness,
he just wants fresh air from the summers sky as I do.
A tail slivers like a python in the air with a triangular form at its end.
His nails look dangerous on the edges if his twig like fingers.
But I do not feel them piercing my soul.
For his hour glass is not pouring any golden sand on this day, no.
So I watch him leave and I am left to thoughts about a small world
with the beetles, flies and mice.
I find myself then laughing at such mythical fantasies.
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
The artist has hidden secrets in
The paintings on her olive skin
Indents on a flat desert plain
Pale pink mirages full of pain
A reminder of a time long gone
Of cries for help from far beyond
Immortalized in the tiny scars
Tragic constellations among the stars
She was enchanted by the way it felt
To burn the cards she had been dealt
But the numbness did not last forever
That haunted string was bound to sever
From the ashes she was born again
And found someone to call a friend
So the artist put her pain into song
Magical poetry about all she’d done wrong
But though her art began to fade
When temptation called, she obeyed
Under cover of darkness, when her wounds start to gush
Her soft, tender fingers still reach for the brush
Snowflakes flutter to frosted earth
On a perfect winter day.
They glide through frigid wind,
Refracting whatever threads of light
Peek through the sky's soft gray quilt.
I stand on snow-crusted ground,
Craving my neck in awe
Of the chandelier of quartz drifting down.
My boots leave indents in an ever-growing cushion.
I want to let one settle on my hand.
So I can run my fingernail across
One of its many crystalline branches.
So I may feel just how smooth
A rigid structure could ever be.
So I will know that something as grand
As the smoky giants that sleep
Lazily above the horizon
Can craft something as intricate as it.
But I worry that the heat from my hands
Will melt and do away its delicate form.
If I were to tap it, even with the
Weakest edge of my nail,
I fear I would cleave it,
Between the roots of its symmetrical beauty,
In two.
How am I supposed to deal with this feeling I was dealt with?
Weighed down by the stone tied around my ankles,
My feet drag with every step that I take.
Every inch forward is heavy,
Crawling through trenches of pain.
The pit in my stomach is only digging itself deeper,
My face is stained black from mascara dripping down my cheeks.
Curled into a ball on the carpet of my bedroom floor,
Trying to breathe in between sobs.
One moment I am fine,
The next I am unrecognizable.
I didn’t know I could feel myself dissolve away
as my body indents the cold hard ground.
It hurts and I am numb,
I am simply a creature of habit,
Breaking down only when I am stung.
I lay there in the midst of the moonlight’s midnight glow,
My thoughts echoing, the voices ringing.
I lay there wide awake into ungodly hours of the night.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go,
This is not who I was supposed to be.
I cannot shake this feeling away,
That I am a disappointment.
No one can be proud of me—
No one should be.
I cannot expect anyone to be pleased,
Why should I?
I have let everyone down,
And that is suffocating me.
Praying someone will come save me,
Out of fear that I will perish with my face blue and my bones bruised—
Resting in this pain that I fear is my fate.