Long Inscribe Poems
Long Inscribe Poems. Below are the most popular long Inscribe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inscribe poems by poem length and keyword.
lashes …
bat tender the twilight
like little lunar moths, I watch as
your lids flutter in the cornflower light
of a moon’s apology
for it hid behind the veil of a midnight storm
and our love danced in an ache
of black shadows and mist,
not its passionate purple paint that so
often seduces our plans …
now you sleep
meanderings moving your eyes forth-and-back
and moving my thoughts to
hope -
hope that you dream of us …
and tomorrows …
Luna’s soft wash is sliced by the
breeze-winking louvers
daubing you with shards of sapphire
and making your perfect dermal landscape
even more the inviting paradise
though I’d have thought that impossible,
even in a night’s magic …
oh my love -
I hesitate to disturb the fanciful story that
rolls your sleeping eyes
but the allurement of your warm and
wondrous flesh is far too
powerful an aphrodisiac for me to ignore,
your moon-splashed integument is
my impassioned playground -
the blank page I long to inscribe
and it begs for palpation
thus …
I shall kiss you gently to consciousness
my fingers writing sexy
glyphs upon the special places only
I know about -
my limbs entangling with yours
my eyes a-dance with moonglow
and my body afire …
I shall create a world far more
dreamy than the one you
delve in sleep
and far more romantic …
so …
awake, my love
wake now …
and dream.
I am drawn to you as an alcoholic to a glass of whiskey,
I lift you to my lips taking a simple sip,
I pour you from the bottle I’ve enclosed you within,
Without fail,
Another day,
Another drink,
Why can’t I stop pouring,
Pouring and drinking from your glass?,
I put you in the bottle,
I expected you to stay there,
My selfish ways inscribe within,
Tip the bottle,
Unscrew the flask,
Giving hopelessly into your misery,
You comfort me while you take my life,
You steal me from my body,
You disconnect me from my conscious mind,
Who might I call upon to save me from the nothingness?,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But as I tip the glass further,
Your solace becoming my pain,
Raise a glass to despair!,
Raise a glass to easeful torture!,
No, I am not an alcoholic,
But I am addicted to the ideals you present,
Please,
I beg,
Save me from myself,
Save me from inside,
Please,
I beg,
I do not want to be okay if this is what it means,
I do not want to be okay if okay belongs in your arms,
I do not want to be okay,
I want to survive,
Let me survive.
The brush too needs a cubist eye,
hands that inscribe
the architecture of
aftergrowth’s return
to collapse and crawl ~
into the crying rivers of chaotic colors
where the canvas reflects
the cruelty of craving
the tortured tremors of thirsting,
for love did not know
how to lull the lament
of childhood wounds she suppressed
in solitary silence,
while the claustrophobic ghosts
in the murky depths of her mind
keep screaming for an eloquent release,
tracing tumultuous teal,
tearing at the greying grief,
confined in corpse cloudscapes ~
like embers of equinox
emanating from the deep dull darkness
of her splitting sight,
a crippled conscience
in need of a cosmic cure,
while the artist perceives not her angst,
but only her magnetic madness,
distilled through sharp,
shapeshifting shades…
She was an enigmatic alteration,
~ picturesque paradox ~
of a melancholic mannequin,
composed in clamorous calmness,
yet no breeze could
read her unwritten truth.
She fears intimacy, imprisoned
in black-and-white blurs,
the imprints of commitment,
for her nails painted in envious acrylic
resemble her jaded heart,
roaring with jealousy,
afraid of being abandoned,
as romance is the demise of tranquility.
No pill, no pigment can purify
the poison that lurks within
her pining veins, paining in vain…
O demented diamonds of drowsy dusk,
must dialects define
what ebbs and flows between the lines,
like phantoms drifting
through cloudless lamplight?
The psychological turbulence
no fingers could frame ~
and no flame could fathom,
as every emotion ~
is a geometric fracture,
painted as the
funeral of a fragranced future...
feeling the ache, the lonely
singing poetry through the soul
who knows what it is to doubt,
the music, the joy, the tears.
feeling the dark, the longing
burning silence through the night,
who believes in the nocturnal,
there is wonder so big it provides,
all the beauty held by the life,
who trembles with the stirrings,
feelings so alive…
feeling the silence, flowing
beneath the rivers of quiet, soundless
pouring out its peace, its solitude
dreams inspired by the whispers, the sighs,
endless beauty, weakened by pain,
limitless hues of beautiful, feeding on the
poetry, the promises…
feeling the heavy ache of a lonely
that will never forsake,
lonely you take to the grave,
feeling that doesn’t quite partake,
feeling, alone and awake,
promising the night to penetrate
with the soul soothing music,
poetry in flames, poetry that amazes,
it’s like a stardust saying…
feeling so awake, feeling that will always stay,
feeling the ache, the lonely,
satisfying the way that only lonely can inscribe,
writing lonely on the soul.
"Although I'm familiar with the art of poetry,
no one has inspired my muse
to inscribe my own journal. -
so I placed my soul in her hands." Silent One
I used to be a journal,
daily dips of ink dripped
deep into my dilapidated soul.
Supporting sorrows of the one
who wrote with endeavour,
'letting go,' of the blackness,
infested within her veins.
Endless chapters of vents,
tears, fears and misery,
bleeding from ruptured arteries,
etched upon the fresh fibres
of a canvas of compassion.
In times of fantasy,
I was a field full of her
supressed wildflowers.
In reality, I was her diary
of deep, destructive desires.
Now her pen rests,
with a sharp nib pointing at me.
Like a shield, preventing
her ink to reveal the
truths behind metaphors.
I'm an anthology of her emotions,
wondering how the next chapter
will be written - is there more to confess?
But in her mute melancholy,
I can think of reasons to express,
but many more to remain inkless.
Yet no other 'ink-toxication' can fill this void -
I'LL FOREVER REMAIN WORTHLESS
as what purpose do I have
without her words perpetually
nourishing my empathic existence.
In this slumber, I collect dust,
feeling bare, but in her rejection -
hungering for her verses to soothe.
1.
A red helium balloon
I float above myself,
Watch the ritual unfold:
Gather the sharps
Lay them out
Roll up the sleeves
Enfold the world in silence.
Then, with infinite concentration,
The Not-Me begins:
Draw the lines
Open the flesh
Let out the hot red
Pain and Poison;
Inscribe another testament
To survival.
Then the balloon drifts down
Sleeves roll down
The Not-Me steps into the balloon
And floats away,
And I become myself again,
Purged and Whole
Until the next time.
2.
A wraith,
I live on air
Insubstantial as the Winter's mists.
I am colorless
Blank as perfect ice, as cloudless sky
Yet I command all appetites,
Control my ghostly shape
Against all outside assault.
My Will is wind,
Invisible and Absolute.
A reed,
I bend but never break.
I may be fading, fading...
But the steel rod within the mist
Shines true and will not yield.
3.
Peel back the flesh
The flowing flesh,
And see the Void within.
I am large but I am empty,
Hollow as a gourd, a husk.
Tear me and the taut surface
Will collapse upon itself.
I hunger, ever hunger
For the things that fill others up
To keep them satisfied.
And so I eat.
I eat Love, Acceptance, Self-Confidence.
I eat Hate, Loneliness, Rejection.
Ultimately,
I consume myself.
After all,
Who else could stomach
The taste of me?
I meander wistfully- -
eyes tracing a panel filled with orange stars
as toes of flowers bend in choreographed waltz,
my element alights through midnight hours
tasting the breast of moon.
And in the stillness of dusk
when all boughs turn to virtues and sins
I will find my own presence in a caravan
of pinned roses in the shade---
till darkness swallows the fog, distilled
while in a collage of framed moments
I inscribe my own name, a signature
which marks the territory from fertile clay;
waltzing not, though flowing in a natural rhythm
like a rare petal..for there's just one of me,
as I meander wistfully - -
End April Standard Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Among the forests of ideas that get lost in dense fogs,
On high cliffs, beliefs carved into the mountain's root,
We stand bound by incantations, by formulas we recite like a litany,
With hearts full of ancient seals, whose deep mysteries are unknown to us.
It is a world of shadows we weave, from the word we speak without thought,
Rituals adorned in silver, with their echo of unanswered questions,
And we hide beneath these masks, the face of which we've forgotten how to read,
A fear of the heights, of the depths, a fervent desire for refuge, for a deceptively cozy nest.
We inscribe on aged parchments beliefs that aren't truly close to us,
Yet we honor them fervently, carry them on our backs like sacred talismans,
Clutching at our chests those formulas, those dogmas we hardly breathe,
In a melancholic ballet with slowed steps, hoping they will save us from drowning.
Ideology – behold! – a wall built not from bricks of clear conviction,
But a tiny labyrinth, made from the unrestrained desire to feel safe,
With every repeated ritual, we stray a bit further from the understanding of the sun,
And we warm ourselves by a flickering flame, of a light we never truly aimed for.
We, on the altar of the unknown, sacrifice meaning for the sake of form,
In a strange ceremony, where words become automatic gestures,
Hiding our fears under the mantle whose embroidery we no longer decipher,
We adhere to a ritualistic walk through which strolls, amnesiac, a poet who has forgotten what it's like to be human.
A black ringlet
curls to lie
at the nape of her neck,
glistening with sweat
in the evaporate moonlight ...
This is what I remember
now that I cannot forget.
And tonight,
if I have forgotten her name,
I remember:
rigid wire and white lace
half-impressed in her flesh ...
our soft cries, like regret,
... the enameled white clips
of her bra strap
still inscribe dimpled marks
that my kisses erase ...
now that I have forgotten her face.
Published by Poetry Magazine, La luce che non muore (Italy), Carnelian, Triplopia, Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poetry Life & Times, The Eclectic Muse, Strange Road, Inspirational Stories, Kritya (India) and Centrifugal Eye.
Sweltering hot stars melt the distant thoughts
With laughter and a twinkling gaze, flickering
Coloring the night in hues of tangerine and rose
Music whispering on the silhouettes of light
Reflected on calm, cool waters who flow clear
On the edge of forests stuffed with oak and pine
Poison ivy climbing the edges of shadows, kissing
Moonbeams with tender affection so warm and kind
Joy this divine reminds me why His love inspires me
To inscribe dreams ~ Poetic leaves, windswept
Free as His gift of grace
Hallelujah, Hallelujah… Joy screams through the silence
Lingering on the miracle of a feeling so real and rare
A feeling flushed with yearning and passionate promises
Nurturing the soul with a harvest of kindness and hope
Love that is His greatest gift, His embrace come down
To hug my soul with tears running like raindrops across
Petals and cheeks, painting a portrait of glorious faith
Through the darkness that intends to haunt the heart
Yet finds itself unable to resist the urgency of a dream
Dividing the senses into breathless sensations of beliefs
Gentling the wild desire of a curious young cub
Changing it to innocence which calms and soothes
Blends truth, wisdom, peace and honest prayer
To assure the heart of the gift
Unconditional love sent to remind us
We are His – Children of God
And He is living inside us
A guiding light
Hallelujah, Hallelujah … His gift of love is powerful
Mightier than the most violent tornado
Potent as the poison on a viper’s tongue
Vigorous and influential like the Creator
Who knows our hearts and souls, all our thoughts
Even down to the last breath or touch
And He knows we will eventually face Him
The One who knows us best and gives us mercy
Through the Holy Spirit who fights for us
Reminding us of the One who died for us
And continues to abide with us ~ Eternally
A part of us we need more than we need to breathe
He is the risen Savior and He is my everything!