Long Lifeme Poems
Long Lifeme Poems. Below are the most popular long Lifeme by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lifeme poems by poem length and keyword.
I been a slave of this world
so I know what it's like
trying to survive in the hood
slinging white on white
I been in bad situations literally staring at danger
from home invasions to robberies
totting four fifth bangers
It ain't hard to see how things have changed
we living in our last days
and on these streets niggas ain't playing
I ain't seeking to be rich or have all kinds of women
cause I'm a leave the way I came out
probably wit some bruises & stitches
It seems to me in this world I was all alone
so I was in a lot of places where the gangsta's roam
my mother always asked me why I was so mad
but ma, what's the future of a young black child without his dad
ain't it sad I was going threw places trying to be accepted
I was looking for love so my heart got helpless
Naw I ain't looking for sympathy
I just want y'all to feel my pain
I remember the day I got saved
I knew my life would never be the same
I put the clutch on my life
to put things in cruise control
but ever since my father passed
I seen a lot of family drama unfold
people asking how many copies I sold
like I'm looking for recognition
I'm just thankful for the people
who opened their ears & listened
I'm on a new mission trying to get my fam in heaven
telling them what God told me bout curses & blessings
this is the "Depths Of A Lost Soul"
I chose to take this road
It was too hot in the streets
so I guess a lot of hearts turned cold.
Thank you Doris,
for giving me the mic.
I would like to welcome my father,
to our poetry web site.
Mr. Richard Pickett,
Has a talent so sublime.
wisdom within his rhymes,
we've collaborated many times.
You should check him out,
you may come to find.
Intriguing thought provoking,
inspiration...
come,
journey through his mind.
Thank you Doris,
for giving me the mic.
How about dem
BRONCOS!!!
Stuffing the Giants.
on Thanksgiving,
a win like that!
Brian Dawkins
a gift...
Elvis Dumervil, D.J. Williams
finding rifts,
Defense inspired,
the offense clicks.
Yes,
he said
Broncos...
Die-Hard, tattoo on
his right arm.
A stallion,
poetry is my art.
Thank you again,
Doris.
for giving me the mic
I'm glad you
"Went to Jared"
Now I must step aside.
I'm going to call for my
"Sweetheart"
You are next in Line
Linda-Marie Bariana has been tagged for Phyliss Babcocks' "Holiday Tag"
The Lord is my Light and my Salvation-
whom shall I fear.
The Lord is the stronghold of my life-
of whom shall I be afraid?
Do not drag me away with the wicked,
with those who do evil,
Be strong and take heart
see the goodness of the Lord-
Sing and make music to the Lord.
Upon them what they deserve His hands have done.
Surround me with songs of deliverance.
I will confess my transgressions to the Lord
You are my hiding place
you will protect me from trouble.
Blessed is He whose transgressions are forgiven.
Whose sins are covered.
We put our hope in you
Rejoice in the Lord and be glad,
you righteous;
sing all you who are upright in heart.
SING JOYFULLY,
to the LORD you Righteous.
Form:
I write a lot of rubbish and I think that you'll agree,
the garbage coming from my mouth epitomises me.
My muse thinks I'm a refuge truck and fills me with it's waste,
I often have to spew it out to take away the taste.
But one man's cast out garbage, is another's food for thought,
for even things we throw away were once the things we bought.
And somehow, though forgotten, there was once a reason why
we collected it along the way and paid the price to buy.
If you see me collecting rubbish, then there's something I forgot,
for oft' I need the very things I threw away to rot.
Discarded thoughts along the way, rejected from my mind,
are now the jewels I wished I had, and find it hard to find.
But if I'd kept my rubbish, and saved it for myself,
I'd never see it sitting on some others highest shelf.
I'd never realise again, how useful it had been
in helping me to understand the things that I had seen.
When putting out the rubbish, it helps to clear the mind
and makes more space for other things to enter from behind.
But don't think that it's wasted, if someone picks it up,
it's amazing all the useful things, found in a garbage truck!
Ivor G Davies
Sitting in the hot tub
Jet sprays do a back rub
Rain pelting down upon my head
Completed my work out
Sun tries to come out
I should be inside working instead
Neighbors are peeking
Don’t know what they’re seeking
I really have nothing much to show
Instead of Tom peeping
In the bushes sneaking
They can join me and I’ve told them so
With my office in the house
Downtown is my spouse
It’s hard for me to motivate
Sitting all alone
Inside my empty home
The PC, sometimes, I must escape
So, if you’re driving by
Don’t care the reason why
Drop in and help to rescue me
Adult conversation
Supports mental health preservation
And would break up this monotony
If the door I don’t answer
Around back you should prancer
And bring yourself an empty glass
There will be booze to fill it up
You can add more to my cup
Please don’t mind my shiny bare …
I yearn for when my troubles were as frost flowers; when the intermittent wresting
of my inner strings was natural , a part of growing up, and when, from tender stem ,
there emerged feelings of confliction that whirled into a strange collage-puberty's
design. But whether my ordeals then were unique, like the latticework of
snowflakes, or as simple as a raindrop on my pane, each one, wing footed,
eventually melted from my mind.
Later came the common plagues: marital discord, effects of growing old and other
irritations, weeds I plucked and dandelion fluff I blew away. These I could abide.
But other winters passing now have brought trials which are as a thorny web.
In unexpected times of drought, from seemingly nowhere. . . they sprout. Star
Thistles (over which I've no control) come time and time again to prick my soul.
Unlike the fleeting flowers of frondescent youth (whose memory retains for me some
beauty), these thistles of infliction are both ugly and unyielding. Surrounding me are
melancholy notes, and though the melody is rallentando, I think this dirge may
never have an end.
For Catie Lindsey's "Dark Prose" Contest
Testing
A testing is going on me
to place me in the peak of heights
In this process
He placed me in the midst of fire of poverty
Hungry is cruel
At the same time the starving of our kids is too cruel
Prestige and self respect are precious
a small blow is enough to break into pieces
Asking not, any thing from realtives
Every grain from them will carry a lot of pain and tears
Penniless persons are their jokers
My crys and tears are thier enchanting plays
No peace even in temples to this victim
Home is the hell and my shadow will turn as enemy
Wherever I go
My poverty preface will reach before me
My lovable wife and kids too throw him by words
This is a test going on to Purify me
to gaive me a precious gift after this life
After this life whatever He gives
what it will serve to me to my present needs.
A ladder is enough to go to my normal heights
No rockets are required to reach the sky and stars
I planned well
But leaving
Was not easy
Driving away from people
Known since the beginning
Of my time
And watching them recede from view
Was difficult.
Complete abandonment
Comes in many forms
But alone, ordinary things
Take on different meanings
And hidden fears
Sharpen the senses.
Lights seem brighter
The world takes on a new dimension
The vastness of the land
Becomes intimidating
From my windshield
I see how the sky curves
In an unbroken arc
Suspended over the horizon
Showcasing the Sun
Sitting up above
Like a King for all to see
There are other cars on the road
But I feel isolated
And tomorrow is an unknown.
Looking in the rear view mirror
There is nothing I recognize
Except me staring back
Studying myself
Noticing
The drawn face
The eyes that meant to say more
The lips that brushed against someone
The shoulders that turned away
From familiar places
Now miles and miles away.
The road allows me
To follow my instincts
But it doesn't hide
The sinking feeling
In the bottom of my stomach
That tells me this is different
There is no turning back
Leaving is for real
And nothing has prepared me
For this feeling.
I: in the 70s
At sixteen, looking through a magazine,
I came across the picture of a girl
whose character was Mary Ellen in
“The Waltons” show I watched on Thursday nights.
Her look was that of mine when I made up
my face and styled my hair a certain way.
It gave me pleasure seeing someone who
was somewhat famous - looking just like me!
And so I clipped that picture out and saved
it in a scrapbook of my memories.
II: in the 80s
Inside a bank I stood in line one day.
Ahead of me I saw a child who stood
beside a woman and I felt a shock.
The little girl looked like my five-year-old.
In fact, she looked so much like Angela,
I had to ask the lovely lass her name,
ascertaining that kid was not my own!
How very strange to see a thing like that.
III: in the 90’s
My husband had a doppleganger who
lived somewhere in our own vicinity,
for three times Joe was in a hardware store
and was approached by people thinking he
was someone else, a framer too, it seems.
I wish that Joe had learned this fellow’s name
and wonder if today they look same
and if his look-alike was also forced
to find another line of work to do!
IV: in the new millennium
I also have a doppleganger in
this area. A few times I’ve been told
I look just like another woman, but
the time that made me feel sixteen again
was when my chiropractor told me that
the structure of my face and how I looked
was like Mcdonnell’s, star in the best film
of Kevin Costner‘s. She had played a Sioux.
Her name is Mary, like the character
I thought I’d looked liked from the Walton show!
V: now
I have a doppleganger here at Soup,
except we do not look that much alike.
She’s fairly young and I am (almost) old,
but nearly everything she says to me
reminds me of myself; however, she
writes free verse and is wackier than me!
She’s more my doppleganger spiritually,
and if you cannot guess who she might be,
I’ll give a clue: she likes to change her name
here at the Soup, a thing I doubt I’d do!
For Matt Caliri's Doppelgangers contest
Who decided who I’d be?
Two people gave me life
Raised me
Kept me safe from harm
Taught me about life
Teachers in school taught me how to read
What to say
What I should believe
They told me what I should think
What not to think
What not to say
What I should not believe
But, did they tell me the truth
Was it the truth they believed?
If they believed it at all
Do I think the same as them?
Do I speak the same words as them?
Could I ever believe as they do?
I am not them
I would not want to be
I learned so much from them
My parents
My teachers
They taught me everything they knew
So, who decided who I’d be?
Not my parents
Not my teachers
My life has been my own
My experiences, bad and good, shaped me
My ideas and beliefs are mine and mine alone
In the long run
With all my faults and foibles
I am the one who made me…me
No one else
Just me.