Long Lesions Poems
Long Lesions Poems. Below are the most popular long Lesions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lesions poems by poem length and keyword.
Spoiler Forewarning Alert!
This averred title announced straight
away so lingering fans
(hoop fully letting me abbreviate)
a short cut so ye
can up and evacuate,
while metered time,
not yet foregone and not to late
hence best heed mine caution
which can protect minimum damage,
asper gray matter within pate
or blithely ignore
admonishment, aye accentuate
hmm...okay,...you apparently
decided to forsake adequate
prophecy, resigning despite
honest to dog admission to punctuate
a most unpleasant prediction,
I did woof lee aerate
worst case scenario,
leaving disabling genetic trait
to effect generations,
where legions of lesions adulterate
causing future offspring to mutate
and closely resemble
teenage mutant turtles, this potentate
(albeit self declared
only mein kampf, thee only life,
his existence he can arrogate
he doth officiate),
hence proceed at your own risk,
to avoid unpleasant fate,
visited upon unborn sons and daughters
uttering imprecations
unintelligible expletive laced spate,
that would approximate
(a cross between duck and pig)
incoherently gutturally excoriate
ting tee, thus don't tell me, I didn't
forewarn ya, whar
yar heart might palpitate,
thus causing da ole
ticker to fluctuate
dem eyes of yaws
could severely dilate,
while sweat gushes out every pore
streaming like liquid useless tube video,
a salty sea would then perspirate
out every last drop of fluid,
erupting magmatic plasma
to pool agglomerate
right under keister,
a lovely bag of bones
delivered to Norristown State
which inability to hydrate,
hence resultant mummification
heroic measures futile
thus humane decision would necessitate
and remaining days
on Earth numbered
starting with zero, not very great,
now this extinct reptile
hoop heed dead gratefully,
express message, and clearly articulate.
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.
Grass. Weed, broccoli, burrito, stink, pot, skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.
Reefer is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.
Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout shoes.
Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims
in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
Here, away from the weight of strain
where domestic thorns are spiked and ripped,
she entangles her damp hair
then bares frozen sighs, running barefoot
along softened meadow grounds;
her soul cleansed by moonglow's peace,
forced not to yield to a man's cycle
of incessannt rage, as moist eyes
float with the new moonlight's gentleness
rendering herself empowered once more
against the hissing of pierced words ,
lesions marked on a slammed body... until
a balmy oak offers a hammock of strength,
while she tries to grasp the truth; aware now
that an alliance quite violent is illusion's bite.
Mindful, she knows she must return home,
to finally unchain herself from the shackles
of his vicious game... it is all over.
John Hamilton's Woman in Chains Contest
8/29/2020
How often do I hide in thick layers
of parading masks-- afraid to reveal
the hardened ego which denies
a vanity ruled by a sordid past -
those matriarchal flaws, cracks from
violence, and lesions of snuffed anger
marked by wired illusions
over time's unhealed grievances.
I smile with resistance existing
through fragile acquaintances to escape
light's awakening that could lead
me out of life's pretenses.
So I hover drearily on bloody nights
and run to the woods in search of sages,
even wise thieves , who could give me
refuge from this soul going imaginary-
but my darkened mind lies, asking
"pride, how treacherous or precious are you?"
Russell Sivey Contest: In The Dark
Created 14.09.2017
She walked in the door like an Amazon Woman
Let me introduce myself I'm____________
I've been doing this for thirty years
She was pale as death warmed over with red hair
But flawless porcelain skin that had never seen the sun
Well let me take a look ...yep
Here's one of those pre-canerous lesions...nope make that two
Then she draws out her equipment ..a bazooka flame thrower
There's no need to numb these up I'll just zap them
Then she turns on her benson burner and goes hold still...hold still..
I'll never get it burned off if you move away..
They must have just released her from some mental hospital
Where she was on the ward for mentally sadistic disturbed patients
Well at least I learned one thing...maybe two
One..never trust a woman with liquid nitrogen in a blow torch
Then she said to me you are of Scandanavain decent..
Strange place to learn of where one's ancestors came from..huh.
Form:
To heal the scars of emotional complaint
And find to do so is a cold long path
To be followed to the mind's dark constraint
And find the source of its malignant wrath
Mistrust is a demon born from a deed
A specter in the soul's dim realm of shade
Filled with memories which often mislead
They ooze in the mind they come to invade
These chosen lesions will try to conceal
And move even deeper trying to hide
From the kindness of love's balm which can heal
When its hand of empathy is the guide
To come with compassion and not with lies
You will melt away pain-filled demon eyes
4/11/20
contest Children of a Lesser God
Keen cold so barbed it burns on touch
in closet places where love gleaned;
you walk across my fractured heart
with stony steps pulsing obscene.
Our memories, still fiery, glaze
an ashen scar within my head,
cremated love in shoddy urn
holds dreams cruelly left for dead.
Callous, as though we never were
sure lovers--body, mind and soul--
you turned away, you had your day;
hypocrisy demands high tolls.
Now left shattered and abandoned,
I shrink, huddled by icy fire;
blue flames licking open lesions,
seared white on brands of blank desire.
Copyright, August 16, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson
"Legal Fiction "
Black Skin, dark desires.
Lewd behavior and carnage,
thus we do not achieve?
Comprehend why we are loathed, we inherited voodo that placed a hex on the moon.
Our heroes were never heroes simply zeroes, the dream of Martin Luther King, the nightmare we live in. Malcom X was a terrorist, the lies he preached terrorised the nation.
Lesions left by the whips that tried ed to discipline and tame the beasts within us.
Slavery was an intervention to free a nigga from the demons that make him a leper and an abomination to God's green earth, therefore he should be chained, victimized and eventually decapitated.
see how frozen rice brings gaiety,
from the weight of a half-starved life
children's palms etch the color of terrorism;
already the villainous hours smell of puss,
ripe lesions , and unbearable heat :
finger-bones snapping from gun-barrels
like the echo of death screams,
or the hissing growl of an undone war
riddled skies raking days grown thin,
as courage is counted on exposed Syrian ribs
of longing for home and fresh broth,
and innocent moments revisited, relived
whispering silent prayers from a time, long ago...
as they lay covered in enemy's refuge
oh, the only thing that keeps these young heroes
going...are lights from angels' wings.
11/24/2017
Silent One's Hero Contest
Scar-like Healings
by Odin Roark
Scar laden perfections
Where life's training wheels balance
One's child-like trust
Adolescent-like daring
Adult-like intemperance
Scratches
Bruises
Broken bones
History's incidentals heal easily
While
Challenges of the heart
Stalemates of the mind
Failure of one's dreams
Make endurance the battle cry
Invisible damages the struggle
Protection of identity
One's survival instinct
The personified continuance
At all costs
How weary our consciousness becomes
For
Around the corner
Lurks the underworld of lesions
Trusting not the scars
For finite as healing might seem
There remains the lesson to be learned
Time-released torment to be resolved
One's fatal wounds burrow deep
Ignoring the façade of mending
Knowing all too well
What remains buried
Are teachings
Damage never dies
Anguish never vanishes
The chameleon of pain
Nullifies one's senses temporarily
Rendering transient peace
While fate prepares
Tomorrow's pin prick
Wishing one to live
Not languish believing
Scar-like healings
Are real