Long Lgbt Poems
Long Lgbt Poems. Below are the most popular long Lgbt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lgbt poems by poem length and keyword.
In all honesty,
I never learned your name.
I didn’t need to;
The look in your eyes is your name
Like fireflies, they twinkle and glimmer your name
A name I love saying
The way you stare at me
It’s like I’m the color yellow,
And I’m painting away the grey of your world
That’s what you tell me
As my head rests in the crook of your neck, and your fingers trail up the bare of my hip
You’re yellow, and sunshine to me you say
And I’m grey like a pebble, soaking up your rays
I laugh
But grey is my favorite color I tell you
It’s the color of the skies on the days I’m tucked in your arms, because its too cold and wet to go outside
It’s the color of my favorite blanket that I keep under my bed
Its only for special occasions
When I need to cry and shake and let the dreams of the night know I’m not okay
You’re not just for special occasions though
You’re for every occasion. Every fight, every dance,
Every laugh with my head thrown back and my fingers tightening around you for purchase because laughing with you is like an ******, it breaks me, it builds me, it loves me
Even when you’re not here
I still think of you
I sit you beside me, and tell you thoughts, even when reality speeds around us, and you’re not really there
Even now I can sit you beside me
And trace the figures of your love with my eyes
Black hair, straight and deep. Sometimes short, sometimes long; I can’t choose, you’re beautiful either way
Brown eyes, deep like the dirt flowers and dreams can only sprout in, that burn like the hearts of spinning stars
Tall, and I hate it, but you always use it to your advantage to capture me tight
I lied
I love it
Long fingers, and you pluck secrets and whimpers from me like notes from a harp
God, I love them
God, I crave them
You’re my all dreams bundled into one, my opposite, my piece of the puzzle, my favorite melody, my infinite addiction
I can’t live without you
A day that goes by without you is another breath stolen from my lungs but what can I do because you’re not even real
Like Pygmalion, I’ve fallen in love with my own mind’s tortured creation and now I can love no one but you
I can stare at no one but you, and when the night falls, I can go to no one but you
To Orsino, how can you say women can’t love like men?
I’ve fallen in love with a woman and now I’m dead.
September 25, 2018
Watching the Olympics news
coverage today
Sadly this is the conclusion
i came to afterwards
Our British male duo won gold
in the synchronized diving event
Brilliant yes of course an
unbelievable achievent
But given more than any other
sport the clue being in the name
It should be equal appreciation
and praise for each as without
the other winning is simply
an impossibility
So how come then i know who
Tom Daley is but don't even know
his diving partner's name
Maybe that's because he was
made to appear or seem
totally irrelevant by the media
news coverage
After the pair won they cut to
Tom Daleys family his mother
husband and their baby
Then we see Tom being
interviewed , Tom singular
on his own fielding questions
mostly regarding his personal
life and sexual preference
And thanking the LGBT
community for all there support
Exactly what that has to do
with diving i hold my hands
up i do not know admittedly
i am no expert on the subject
But personally for me what
i found was the real kick in
the teeth smack in the face
As i for 1 absolutely love and
breathe sport the gift the ability
the dedication the sacrifice
Was how it was constantly
infered it was only Tom's
dream since he was a young
child to win a gold medal
Again personally and only
to me what i seen goes against
the very ethos and ideology
of what the Olympics itself
stands for
I felt so sorry for him and his
family as Tom family husband
and child got more coverage
than he did
I tried to put myself
in his or his family shoes
and tried to wonder
How they must have felt having
their joy pride stolen and cheated
from them
Reduced merely to a bit part
or side show to the main event
And again i protest because
the clue is in the name
Synchronized Diving a duo
a pair a partnership a team
1 simply can not without
the aid of the other 1 win
So tell me where on earth
is the justice and sportsmanship
to be found here
And his name by the way
just incase you missed it
or care is
Matty Lee and he to also
wanted to be and win a
gold medal
And was just as dedicated
and trained just as hard in
order to achieve and make both
theirs dream a reality
Rather than as the press and
media barely refer to him as
Tom Daleys diving partner
or the other guy
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or *****
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
I don’t start off thinking it’s a priority to insult
so if you end up offended it’s probably your fault
opinions can be devisive
one will speak and another won’t like it
offensive views are realised
Someone’s mental state is in a crisis
Start throwing sticks and stones
Hire a wolf to blow down homes
Easily offended and always prone
vacated adults who like to moan
We live in a world of victim mentality
grouped together in a cause for humanity
those historical tales filled with the brutality
though not our experience or actuality
as a white man I’m supposed to have it easy
the call for equality means no one sees me
because I cannot call on some ancient history
when I had the advantage in a previous century
A single man isn’t given a house to live in
that the same man with children would be given
raising kids on benefits who don’t make a living
and yet no one cares if single men are driven
When girls become pregnant they are given homes
A gifted blessing though the father’s unknown
while these single men must survive on their own
and they say equality favours the man alone
Men disagree and the situation turns physical
women disagree and spread tales that ridicule
so what if men and women are disagreeable
advantage to the female practiced at cynical
Because men don’t play mind games with men
it’s just too much effort to ever waste on them
whereas women play these games over again
the opposite gender that males can’t threaten
so LGBT and women are historically lesser
and we must respect Black Lives Matter
in a white mans world white men are better
though at a disadvantage if they ain’t clever
In todays world the cause gets prioritised
at the piles base every white man alive
the message we bully and must step aside
making up for history before we were alive
And yet we are not victims and are not offended
I guess my grandfather lived a life most splendid
and my generation are now expected to mend it
in a white mans world that must be defended
Don’t ever forget just who built this city
with the sections of it now demanding pity
who have equal rights and the same opportunities
you should reap the rewards not focus on scrutiny
"The Forgotten Poets"
Saints and Sinners
all calling out for
forgiveness
and wanton recognition
de Sade like minds
libertine and revolutionary
Saints living out their penance
kiss the sharp lips of Sinners
Juxtapositions of souls
Sinners become divine
Saints become unhinged
more human, mortalised
willingly they are led
They Become
Love makes us
All Hallowed Souls
intrepid and invisible
crazed with courage
walking unseen through
the sanctified temples
of the lost and isolated,
The Forgotten Poets
Manifesting, we are mesmerized
We are actuaries counting lives
through the hidden words
and forsaken numbers
along the jagged lines
absent of what
is most deeply sought
ruthless has been the confiscation
to spend our ink on clean sheets
imprinting heat we brand our marks
beating in time and out of time
a tattoo on a body of work
that will eventually be stroked
souls are traded
we are all bought
by the vanity to be read and seen eternally
understood by the Unseen who gifts us
A moment
to cross the static mind
to draw a line between
Trust and the Lies
We are Sensate
tracing softly the streets
in a lover’s open palm
to slide a finger sensuously,
provocatively
towards the crossroad
of an unclothed and vulnerable
upturned wrist
feel the pulse tickled
in the moist hollows of somewhere
a whispered breath
along a neck kissed
Communing with cunning alchemy
manifesting what is not said
through broken hearts
and the tears of half open doorways
closing on pasts best forgotten
wrapping our thoughts like
warm legs around the burning
Divine
leading us into temptation
with
futures and promises
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
“Certain souls may seem harsh to others,
but it is just a way, beknownst only to them,
of caring and feeling more deeply.”
Marquis de Sade
"My passions,
concentrated on a single point,
resemble the rays of a sun
assembled by a magnifying glass:
they immediately set fire
to whatever object they find in their way"
Marquis de Sade
Round 1: New York won!
By Brett Somers
Written 10-13-2018
Like a ghost in the shadows
New York
People and places and vaporware faces
New York
Experience of magnitude
To have everything in the world
Yet what at all?
Transient position
Always moving
New York
Cool spots, cool spaces
Beautiful faces
New York
Astounding architecture
Money and merchandise
A workers paradise
New York
Does one settle?
In New York
Rent is rising
Always compromising
Who’s your friend in
New York?
Meetups galore
Mr.’s and Mrs. and more
But who’s there anymore?
New York
Does New York have an artist scene?
When the arts are from out “there” but not in-between
New music, new arts?
Tourists are looking for the cover
Buskers better try another
New York
The scene
The scene
Where is the scene?
West Village you’re my beauty queen
But is jazz your only thing?
Trains oh, I’ve had enough
Loved the no car deal
But life in a subway
Always waiting
Dim lights, poor air
Rats abating
Are we friends New York?
How I loved you and your sampler of samplings
You grew on me but your shoes were too big
You made me yes, I’m thankful
Carved much of my lid
The anonymity did allow me to find my LGBT me
And to dabble in my artistry
To your big globe shaker
You shook me up and gave me more
A break from California’s shore
Fooled me once
And many times more
But I learned a few things
How not to be a bore
But your energy is surging
An electrocution
To my core
So I did my best
You hustled the rest
And now we must part
I’m hoping Austin’s more art
But let’s you and me be friends
I’ll be back again
For your addictive allure
That never ends
You’ll be my show stopping tour
And then you’ll finally venmo my pockets
Like the rich grandparent I always hoped for
I’ll forgive you for not embracing me
Like the Hudson embraces its humidity
I must admit you conquered me
But I’ll be back
I’m not finished with you yet
And when I return
It will be my turn to color the sky
With such a sound as you’ve ever seen
Embracing your lonely buildings
And reviving your dream
We were taught
that to be qu**r
means to be strange,
to be unlike the rest,
to be different,
but not in a way that would raise surprised brows
or taint eyes green with jealousy.
We were taught
that to be qu**r
means to be different
in a way that would produce uneasy “oh”s
or disapproving “how could that be”s.
To be qu**r was
a rising sea of loneliness drowning us
but later it became comforting furry blankets
we’d pull up to the tips of our heads at night—
there was safety in keeping our lips shushed.
You call it hiding in the closet
we call it an embroiling conflict with ourselves
of loving and hating,
of pretending to be not so different,
of letting your homophobic jokes slide,
of knowing that we’re silent because we’re also afraid to hear the truth—
that we’re also sometimes disconcerted by this part of ourselves,
for that’s just the way we do it.
We learn, over time,
as we find out that that kid in our Chemistry class
likes painting his nails,
and that girl in our neighbourhood
scribbles hearts over the Cara Delevingne posters on her bedroom wall,
we learn that maybe
we’re not so different.
We teach ourselves
to give to ourselves
the love we want to give to people who make our hearts flutter,
to accept ourselves
the way want to be by our mothers and fathers,
to embrace ourselves
the way we embraced that friend who came out to us.
We teach ourselves to take off the blanket and sleep in the open instead.
We teach ourselves to keep swimming and swimming no matter how ferocious the currents grow.
We teach ourselves to love all the seven hues in our skies
and to let go of the people who don’t find rainbows beautiful.
We teach ourselves to battle the ridicule and dismissals and bullying,
to no more despise the way our hearts beat.
We teach ourselves to no more pretend to be ’normal’
for we already are normal.
We no longer subdue our voices to the pits of our anxious stomachs
Instead, we sing in a chorus of the hues in our skies,
for we are here
and we are qu**r
and that’s just the way we do it.
My poetry represents,efficiency,creativity,connectivity,productivity,reality,and spiritual transformation! Poetry Soup can only be produced by a poet of a unique sort! The tools of a poet lives in every sort or kind of a woman or a man: We all have these tools at hand:Some just do not understand!These tools reside in my friends ,and my enemies too! I extract these tools from them to realize who they are ,and who I am,and can be and who is who? My poetry represents efficiency,productivity,life,and re-birth,and being born again,and speaks of the animate,and the inanimate,fiction,and reality,as we travel on the road to eternity!My poetry speaks of love ,war,hate,emotions,envy,jealously,freedom,slavery,fun,and play,and speaks about morning,noon,night ,and day! My poetry speaks about what is seen ,and not seen,and what vibes really feel like,and what type of vibes,are bad,and the vibes that are right!!!My poetry speaks about bits and bytes,and these things effect our everyday life.My poetry speaks about what makes the stars in the sky gleam! My poetry speaks about us and them. My poetry speaks about lgbt,straight,bi-sexual,gay,trans-sexual,lesbian women and ,our human rights as women and men! My poetry speaks about the stars in the sky,and why we as people live and die,as we travel on the road to eternity,where we all reach our destiny! My poetry speaks about why we as people tell the truth,and tell a lie!!!My poetry speaks about why people sing a song,and praise "The Lord God Almighty"all day and all night long!My poetry speaks about how "Jesus Christ"is "The Only Begotten Son"of "The Living God"that came to save all of mankind from going to "Hell",and be able to live again,while being in "The Spirit"at the very end"!That is why we call "Jesus Christ ";Christ! My poetry speaks to give happiness in life:That cannot be wrong: That can only be right! My poetry speaks to give "ALL GLORY"to"GOD"!!!!!!! That is the only reason that "MY POETRY CAN SPEAK!!!
I drank the blood.
Shuffled up to the altar,
pearly white shoes scraping over
faded white tile dirtied by the footsteps
of countless sinners.
(I knew, even then, that that same grime already claimed my soul.)
I accepted the golden chalice with shaking
hands and brought it
ever so gently to my lips.
It tasted like poison, but I drank the blood.
I’d never feel so holy again as I did that day,
wholly pure in untouched white satin,
bursting with life and joy
and the light shining from the proud eyes of the parishioners.
But the light of their spirit would soon curdle in my veins
from the hatred of false goodness.
I pored over page after page,
dutiful scholar I was,
and found nothing but tongues lashing like the Romans
they should’ve disdained,
not mirrored.
Every biting indictment corroded the gleam of my soul
until the only light remaining
was the reflection of that glistening chalice.
I am not the one who bit the forbidden fruit,
and yet the sweetness of its juice mixes with
the blood on my dry, cracked lips,
crimson trailing down, down,
down my ashen face.
A stain of my humanity.
A stain of Your hands.
I drank the blood.
The transplant attacked my system,
draining the life from my eyes
until I was left pleading You to sop up
the few lasting drops with a pitying rag.
Merciful as You’re written,
I begged you,
knees bloodied and scarred,
to transform me.
Make me whole
or dismiss me to the depths.
Fix me,
or allow the scourge and fire to purify me
for ever and ever.
I called into the night for year after year
before I realized it was as vacant as I was revolting.
Was I right?
I may never know,
but I do know something inside of me broke those days,
shattering me from the inside out.
I try to escape, peeling back rotten layers,
but it courses through my veins
steady and permanent as my beating heart.
I cannot claw it out, no matter how I try,
for I drank the blood.
Janus Face
Chaotic dialect set-off back-and-forth
Two contrasting characteristics
One is proven to be duplicitous
Political backing of the other party
Now denies it
A refusal that of a true statement
Two-headed bull, speaks gibberish
But the bull is goaded,
wounded, half-crazed
If the bull could reason,
it would understand
After the matador shows off
assessing the bull
The matador unfurls a red cape
Makes me sigh
Men, and women who stand by the bull
Who want to take away freedom
A kind of deception in which you
intentionally hide your true feelings
Intentions behind false words or
Freedom’s away from women's choices
Of their own bodies!
Immigrants’ work grants and
reforms dissolving
They define our American character
and shared history
They are not a problem we need solving
Doctors arrested for saving mothers'
LGBT rights gone
It’s wrong according to the Good Book
A*** or oral copulation “bad acts”
aren’t limited to homophobes
Hear, hear,
Listen to you!
Invisible self
I’m just a regular guy trying to help you –
but if you go back to your old world, beware,
because there are some tricky guys out there
No freedom for those people
Students’ books banned,
Bullying left-facing taken into their own hands
Shine a spotlight on the humanity of immigrants,
and the underlying theme is compassion
Chaotic dialect back-and-forth
Left-facing a Warrior for the people
Our beautiful United States will not be free at all
If together we don’t stand,
So, divided we will fall
On day 1, I promise to take all social experimentation (affordable housing), woke agenda (ban books), side issues (woke ideology) and throw them in the trash—Ron DeSantis
There's one thing that we have in common— Neither of us will be the nominee for our party in 2024—Gavin Newsom