Long Ink Poems
Long Ink Poems. Below are the most popular long Ink by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ink poems by poem length and keyword.
On an early misty winter morning, I saw a shoeless man crossing the street Giving my shoes to him was a real treat Then I was shoeless but much more loving
020420PoSpCtest, Kind Ink, Charles Messina, 3P 4 Lines, Rhyme Pattern (ABBA), 10 syllables per line
Used PoSp syllable counter
it had been some time
since the walls
and the joins met,
but with each stride
foundations were lost
and flakes of misery
broomed my wake
the stigmata came
and it was as if,
my iron pen
had speared my wrists
someone called it writers cramp
but the sanctity of the odour
spoke otherwise
when the green began to ooze,
the hand of Esperanza
rested on my forehead
raking her nails
telling me
it was time
and,
that my hands had purpose
one last time
as each word envisioned
a thousand lashes
and each stanza speared
my side
I laid stripped
of flesh
each piece of flayed skin
raked off to fly the wind
dessicated to dust,
I laid in nirvana
mere moments
but,
falling through
the hourglass
I ran dry
now made of chalk
with each rub
I am diminished
to crumble
and the lines
grow ever obscure
What makes one to write verse?
especially when school days was zero
english classes were complete bore
always at bottom so was no hero
This so well describes me then
couldn't wait to get away from school
didn't know what my future would hold
letter writing I loved pen was fav tool
Now looking back maybe just not right time
needing encouragement for ink to flow
time was on my side for to develop
best things in life sometimes come slow
Even reading poetry didn't really excite
as Ayrshire lad wasn't drawn to Robert Burns
it took holidays down in Lake district area
view Wordsworth house for mind take turns
Now finally things coming together
the inner ink gradually dripping out
admit I'm not that great so far
such pleasure to write without doubt
God has filled me with His truth
so I need to faithfully tell it forth
seeking to give God all the glory
inspired from one divine source
(My coming together to write poetry was a slow long trip but it now comes as a great joy to do. )
In the quiet of the night,
a whisper moves.
A spark lights up—
soft, sudden…
like a muse breathing fire
into the dark.
The day has faded.
Only shadows now.
And the wind
takes its flight.
Somewhere,
a soft orange glow—
a place where hidden feelings go.
Twilight sits there, still and slow.
Numb…
but aching to be known.
Above,
in star-filled skies,
an attic waits
with a long, quiet sigh.
And a poet—
hand trembling, eyes wide—
reaches out
with ink-stained dreams.
A pale moon rises—
soft, tall, glowing.
It doesn’t ask.
It only whispers:
“Let go.”
Midnight poets…
we write when the world is sleeping.
We are
as free as falling leaves
caught in autumn vines.
Our words?
Like spells—
biting, healing,
yours and mine.
We are web-weavers
of sleepless pages.
We speak with no voice,
just ink.
Blind hands tearing night from day,
spilling dreams
in messy, beautiful lines.
We don’t need food.
Just ink.
Just words.
Just this fire in our chest
that never quits.
We burn through pages,
break pens,
bloom in places
no one else sees.
We whisper to the unknown.
Eyes closed.
But everything…
everything is seen.
We build worlds
from nothing.
We escape
by creating cages
made of rhyme.
We have no friends—
just ghosts in our heads.
We are the ones
no one understands.
Midnight is our kingdom.
And poetry…
is how we rule it.
So if you hear this
and your heart feels it—
Maybe I’m not just talking about me.
Maybe…
I’m talking about you.
just like
well just like my
good old days
i still write
poetry
with
a
pen never
was into using
pencils except
for exams needing
standard No. 2's
for the correct
answers
now days
people keep
the pencil shell
and put in the
proper lead
needed for
the chore
a different way
to score on the
wall how many
years it has
been add
ing an
other
llll then
c
r
o
s
s
the last to
make it five
but i gave
up counting
she said age
is just a numb
er and the lines
on her cheeks are
from laughter
where my crow's
footed eyes are
there after watching
so many sun rises
and sets that i
wouldn't
regret
getting
plenty
more
Form:
Death of My Ink
After a masterpiece that I was proud to write
no poetic words flowed from my pen out right
I could not ink the description of a desert dry
and worse yet had no mindset to try
thought I had to be conflicted enough
to use words to scream out in pain
I had no arsenal to name the sea a quilt of blue
Writing had come to a screeching halt
and not penning poetry was like food without salt
But just as a cloud hung over a little boat
a storm raged over my drink ink moat.
My ink did not have bicycle wheels
nor did it chase me wearing high heels
I had no idea if ink could have a revival
it was dead I assumed no survival.
There you were - dancing,
unaware of the intense rain.
Despite grey clouds grimacing,
your radiant glamour enticed emotions.
Emeralds and sapphires shimmered
through those luminous eyes.
First glimpse of your warm smile,
saw suppressed symphonies resonate
with each beat of my heart.
Not all poetry is for everyone's eyes,
so we read each other in silence.
Unwritten ink dyed our skin,
as the pen lost control,
carving our names within
timeless beloved ballads.
Two souls scribbling secret sonnets,
easing restless chambers of our minds.
Naturally beautiful like nature,
our evergreen love blossomed.
As we wandered within utopia's oasis,
our feet kissed sun blessed paths,
leading to passionate pastures.
There is no transcript,
to our epic love story,
it will forever remain an
unpublished manuscript.
Simple Musing
Silent One
11 September 2018
"Paint with paint or paint with words." By Poet
As a small child I loved to paint,
finger paints brought my plain paper to life.
As a teen my painting moved on,
on to painting by numbers.
In our first house I painted the many walls.
Paints come in many pretty colors,
some very bright like the sunlight.
Paints can come in pretty pastels,
like a soft blue just like the sky above.
White or black can be added for a new color.
Then I moved on to painting words,
and painted with colorful ink.
My ink has many pretty colors,
to make my words come to life.
I will paint beauty everywhere I go.
My skin tells a tale, no shame, no regret/
Ink etched in darkness, paths firmly set/
Each mark a whisper, Occult and profound/
Symbols of magic, where shadows abound/
The inverted cross, a forearm's creed/
A testament to journey, to spirit and need/
Commanding respect, not of gangster lore/
But ancient rites, that my soul explores/
A clean life I walk, sober, legit/
No chains of vice, no shame to admit/
Perhaps I'm one of a few, rare in my kind/
Tattoos of the night, with a disciplined mind/
Celebrity or not, it's not what I claim/
But through the ink flows my spiritual flame/
Proud of my canvas, a map of my quest/
My tattoos are my armor, my silent confess/
(This is a poem i wrote in 2012 for the U.S school shooting, which i have now modified to include the Iranian school childern bombing by foreign dìctators,
that killed over a 112 girl students)
( news report: On December 14, 2012, a mass shooting occurred at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, United States. The perpetrator, 20-year-old Adam Lanza, shot and killed 26 people. The victims were 20 children between six and seven years old, and six adult staff members. Earlier that day, before driving to the school, Lanza fatally shot his mother at their Newtown home. As first responders arrived at the school, Lanza killed himself with a gunshot to the head. )
My heart bleeds
for the misdeeds
of man killing man,
But a waterfall of tears
shed from pupils of the eyes
when and whenever
it's school pupils murdered,
The parents apple of their eyes
Lives and schools too sacred
to be massacred therein..!!
I recall of U.S
that one man shootout
Thoughts raced my mind for answers
I think, was it a madman lagerlout?
Indeed drugs, drinking and lack of parental supervision
could together form a lethal combination
Such fatal carelessness and recklessness
must be caused as well by godlessness
so atheism kinda completes self-destruction's equation...
To be able to commit senseless matricide, homicide then suicide
surely requires ample frustration!
As poet Blackpool Jimmy put it,
'lil ones who hardly said hello
are made to bid adieu'
I add, 'investigation into societal causes
is ever highly long due.
For this terrible atrocity
my heartfelt condolence
for loss of innocence
whether the kids are Muslim,
Christian or Jew
I despise all killer instinct ferocity
Innocent angel kids now in heaven
like doves do coo.:'(.
Woe to him, tis for certain for sure
twas a horrendous way
to settle with life the score!
for killers, we believers know,
never rest in peace
whether they kill a stranger, brother,
mother or niece!
And now this latest,
This time a school bombing air strike,
innocent Iranian school students
razed down and erased from earth,
Blood of innocence spilled
and little hearts killed
by heinous evil...
Alas ,shame woe be
on those who maim children
for mercenary claim...