Long Inners Poems
Long Inners Poems. Below are the most popular long Inners by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inners poems by poem length and keyword.
1. A heart in need of a permanent home
but not this vagabond in a split shift
who always flunks honesty.
Promises in tonnage but so eolian
forward motion in a reverse gear
yet I am so blind to dislodge the clues
of his true self.
Chorus
Smiles so wrongful
touches of blackmail
words in capital letters
coming out only in quotes
sweet passions of adulthood
relegated to a juvenile aim
proof or none, his intention’s sugar bad.
2. His care of my sepal is still obscure
an acquaintance but already playing lovey-dovey
his eyes on my inners, they appease
his impatience is clear
the rate at which I click is ponderous
putting him in the nick of his fantasies.
Chorus
Smiles so wrongful
touches of blackmail
words in capital letters
coming out only in quotes
sweet passions of adulthood
relegated to a juvenile aim
proof or none, his intention’s sugar bad.
3. Yet another deity of romance
with cups of passion filled with bella donna
he gets his meals in between legs
and sees me as the next bloater
an albatross is the last thing I need
cos I can’t go back to the same spade
to fetch out dark sands.
Chorus
Smiles so wrongful
touches of blackmail
words in capital letters
coming out only in quotes
sweet passions of adulthood
relegated to a juvenile aim
proof or none, his intention’s sugar bad.
Hear their voices heed their cries
behind closed doors their terror lies
he left the stage and the public talk
but when home its principles mock
Day to day they live in fear
he's such a good man his children dear
but in truth he's Jeckel and Hyde
for acid are his inners and sugar outside
They dream as children for a fathers hug
but in private their back to the rug
the pain and conflict have left their mark
for current is hopeless and the future dark
He said they'd not believe you true
and thought a liar you would be
should you expose him and what he do
and what he started at age of three
The place where they were broken
should have been a safety zone
where the tenets of love are spoken
but empty of practice home
Rocks hidden in the rivers
but turbulence not rare
just beneath its surface
with the children drowning there
If you require another witness
get the children that exam
the dna would damn them
publicly remove that harmful man
Why do you whip the victim
and let the culprit free
the results from the doctor
would condemn him publicly
No shepherd of the flock is good
if he not protects the sheep
by oath you are bound to "truth"
and the commands your owner keep
The perpetrator by God convicted
but the shepherd who does not
pursue the "truth" will be exposed
his negligence will be caught
John 10:1-18
Matthew 7:15-23
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Christmas time oh, fah lah, fah lah.
Everyone loves it lah dee dah, lah dee dah.
Except those who are planning suicide today.
It’s more prevalent than you think in December so gay.
Sure, some people think it’s all Jesus Santa and stuff.
They are the ones who have not been planning their demise in a huff.
Can you reach these do-inners, talk them out of their dour sad ways?
I doubt it quite nicely, but let’s forget about them on these wintery days.
Let’s happy up Santa, and put Lord Jesus way high up on the shelf.
Scoot him next to the reindeer and the not-so-hidden stupid grinning elf.
Let’s forget about the sadness, the badness, the mean and the grim.
We have a glitzy Christmas tree to decorate with holiday trim.
During the long silence life’s neither sad nor gay…
It only meant one needed time away.
Though, best wishes to my friends who with me they stayed in touch;
with soft notes of caring words that means so much.
Helpful hints to put perspectives in balance…
To take a closer look beyond a quick glance…
To weigh the highs and lows of Ones’ trials and errors...
To retrace steps taken upon roads spread wide and those paths-a-narrow…
To see with inners eyes of the worlds’ many wonders…
To ponder the plight of fortunate men and of those cursed asunder.
Do you ever think about life? Don’t you just want to know…
Why some have great wealth while others heave and tow?
Why complete happiness’ price is sadness?
Why weeping moms cannot share in my gladness?
Why my full belly causes yours to empty?
Why some stand contently while others in wrath or pity?
We are told that each reap what they sow….
As I look around ¬_that’s definitely not so.
For what has a infant done during its short life…
To suffer or die with such grievous strife?
There’s much happiness, riches and wealth.
Yet, also there’s sadness, sickness and poor health.
In quiet silence I ponder the balance.
And there amid it all…. We are
…..w09182019
In the corner dark and glum,
Extant off-casts lie plonked there,
To fill in the space
Knick-knacks, old wedding presents,
ornaments and filler-inners
Round and globular, bits and pieces,
Hide the harsh mangles and tangles
When walls at right angles collide
Vases on pedestals, lamps on tables with draws,
Triangular book shelve
Tiny, tall thin cupboards
All lurking and softening the dead, dank naughty corners
With curvaceous adornments and left-over stuff.
If rooms were round there would be no corners to fill
But, would you miss your corners
Like graves with headstones miss their mourners?
One rain-soaked morning at the mill owner’s behest they assembled on the hillside.
High above his workers’ harsh existence, building commenced on the mansion.
Brick by brick, inch by inch I emerged.
First floor reached, two sturdy hollow legs joined to form my trunk.
Upward they built, two more storeys, the roof and then my finery.
Ornate brickwork topped with a jaunty pot – I was the dandy of the mansion.
In cast-iron fireplaces fires roared sending hot smoke through my body.
I was alive, smoke belched out announcing my arrival.
Days turned into weeks turned into years – I became the house’s backbone.
In those early years small boys would lovingly clean my inners of tar and soot.
But this intimate relationship would soon be replaced by cold mechanical brushes.
Decembers arrived and the children posted their secret letters to Santa.
Once devoid of paper their words flowed along my warm smoky currents upwards and northwards.
In war years I served as a refuge for family treasures lovingly packed in tin boxes.
Some were forgotten and still wait to be rediscovered.
On cold winter’s days my warmth was like a homing beacon.
Rooks, crows, pigeons circled like aircraft waiting to land on my warm terracotta pot.
But alas I was not part of the modern way – my starring days were over.
Birds migrated as metal veins connected to gas fires transported toxic cocktails to the rooftops.
Then gas fires were removed, fireplaces blocked up – stale air lingered deep inside me.
My pot no longer a crowning glory was replaced by a concrete capstone.
And now I’m hidden – my external limb amputated through reroofing.
I’m still, I’m silent but I will always remain chimney.