Long Lit Poems
Long Lit Poems. Below are the most popular long Lit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lit poems by poem length and keyword.
I've stolen your fate as a trophy I own
Its blood dripping another stain on my throne
To me you are nothing but something to kill
To beg for a reason my hate I fulfill
The pain I'll inflict with cold vibrant glee
Comes without cost to my conscience for me
This dung lit world where rage finds its thirst
A shadowy figure to every life I curse
In hell I find comfort, its filth and stench I know
To rip away each vein from your heart, before I go
Your gurgling cauldron of breath I will steal
To fill my chalice with pain, to you I'll reveal
This need to release such a terrible scorn
It flows so cold, my hatred for ever being born
1/7/17 contest You Say You want a Revolution
Getting dumped
shouldn’t feel like shattering,
but it did.
It cracked something deep,
a place already bruised
by months of breaking silently.
And you knew.
God, you knew.
You knew about the storms I’d weathered,
the weight I was carrying quietly,
the wounds I never wanted to reopen—
but you pried them wide
in a matter of seconds
and called it closure.
You broke me
with a smirk,
like it was nothing.
Then you turned on my best friend,
twisted the one connection I still had
until I was left
with empty air
and a hollow kind of silence
that not even crying could fill.
Two days.
That’s all it took
to lose everyone I trusted.
How did I let it happen?
How did I hand over the hammer
and thank you
for building me up
only to watch you
smash it all down?
I spent a week
sitting in corners,
faking smiles,
relearning how to introduce myself.
It was just me
and the comfort of quiet pages—
books that didn’t ask me to pretend.
Introverted.
Short-tempered.
Scared.
Trying to grow
while everything around me
was crumbling.
And when I finally tried
to explain the weight I carried,
you laughed.
You laughed.
As if mental health was a punchline.
As if trauma was a dare.
As if suicide
was something to joke about
just to see me flinch.
You mocked pain
like it was entertainment.
You turned my brokenness
into a weapon
and aimed it at me every chance you got.
And still,
I stayed.
I let it slide.
Until I didn’t.
Because even if you never saw my worth—
I finally did.
And maybe I should thank you.
Because your leaving
was the beginning
of me finding myself.
You dumped me—
and I dug myself out.
I made new friends.
Laughed real laughs.
Spoke softer,
not because I was weak,
but because I had nothing left to prove
to people who only wanted
to see me fall.
You don’t get to own
what I become.
But I’ll give you this—
you lit the match.
And now I’m fire.
Too much enlightenment
with not enough empowerment
depresses me to feel isolated
and surrounded by self-impressed fools,
like me
or against me.
Too much empowerment
with not enough enightenment
anticipates
and advocates
and avidly endorses
narcissistic egocentrism
for my individual self
and
manically unrealistic
anthrosupremacist
Other Otherers
Super Patriarchal-Capitalist powers
against Earth's
and polycultural EarthTribe's resilient
self-organizing
health and wealth care
Long-term
indigenous wisdom potential
for healthiest RightHemisphere
felt co-empathically empowered
and wealthiest LeftHemisphere
verbally enlightened
For great grand future regenerators
of all secular ergodic
sacred synergetic
cooperatively greased relationships
Reducing trauma for squeaky,
curious
compassionate future
multiculturing secular
LeftYang diversity
inter-religious sacred
RightYintegrity
pre/re balancing generations
Of transcendent
co-invested
wealthy and wise storytellers,
co-empathically enlightened;
and cooperatively healthy
ecofeminist
history makers,
impressively co-empowered.
Winter winds rattle window panes;
and yet no one ever complains.
And shadows on candlelit walls
flicker, as the flame flares and falls.
A worn-out blanket with a hole;
substitutes for a warm bedroll.
And though supplying meager heat,
a kerosene heater's a treat.
Money is as scarce as kind words,
for two impoverished lovebirds.
And though the hope held in their hearts
may dwindle, it never departs.
Poverty steals their very breath,
in this saga of life and death.
Their love helps them deal with their pain;
for it is all that keeps them sane.
Social Security's a joke;
hung around their necks like a yoke.
Poor folks are hard-pressed to exist,
and yet, no one wants to assist.
Without proper meds, death lurks near,
living in the shadow of fear.
And yet, faith is what gets them through;
thanking God for each day anew.
When we let the wealthy decide;
those without funds get swept aside.
Governments vow to fix this wrong;
let us pray the poor live that long.
Looking for inspiration
while treading a deserted moonlit road;
would some intuition
help as this body shivers with the cold?
Fear seems illogical and distant,
who can harm me under God's glance...
when He moves on noiseless current,
making all the scintillating fireflies dance?
Peace is needed when one is treading
a moonlit road often rode down by wild horses...
an unusual noise can be a fragile branch breaking
and falling upon a pretty garden of spring roses!
I also frequent this road trod by many travelers,
it leads to a sanctuary that was built for Christ;
smell the candles burning on the altar covered by dust...
even outlaws kneel down to Him and ask for forgiveness!
She lit the candle in evening’s repose
then held the pages bound and decorated
in story-fabled paper coverings.
She buried her head in the words of others.
Arms outstretched and folded on a pillow,
she tightly held a lifetime of explanation.
As she opened each page of wishful longings
her thoughts drifted into unknown
yet sometimes familiar places.
She buried her head in the words of others.
Devouring and mouthing each line-
foraging like a hungry child
starved from intangible imaginings.
Imbued along the infinite road of her freedom
her head kept filling with vestiges
of rolling oceans and dire deserts-
of tawny forest and snow covered peaks.
She buried her head in the words of others-
hiding in the jungles of Borneo-
riding black stallions over the plains of Africa-
awaiting the earthrise from craters on the moon-
listening to the city of a million people
contemplated in the dulcet tones of Miles Davis’ trumpet.
She buried her head in the words of others-
entombed in a poet’s lyric read aloud
turning the pages that fell across her heart.
She swallowed each wonderment within-
filling an empty cupboard of feelings
like the moon melting in a rainstorm…..
Phhhhhhhhhh!
Tired and inspired she blew the candle out
1.Darkness lit
A jot of light
Glistering is…
Rays of light
Over-coming darkness sight
Blinded by the light…
2. Always.
Shows that they really are.
Honest with you when it matters most
Yet tears goes unflustered
Substances sticking together
No matter what there…
Never hurtful, always forgiving
True friend is not only honest bout themselves, but they are also honest about you
Never boastful thriving to be fulfilling
In happiness and sadness
Always, always got each other’s back with gladness
Deceive you no not
First Revelation In Every Notion Dependant-dependable
3. How can you hate someone and its dark?
Open up your hearts eyes and see the light;
A friend is an enemy whose blindly sees;
Open you’re embracing hands and arms can lead;
So when that hated forgiven enemy;
Becomes a friend so endearing;
Thank God for the light
For He’s righteous
Only He in your heart can turn the darkness into light
Only your true friend was your enemies turn right;
12/18/19
For You've Got Style Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Often in my belief I make the wrong decision
Upon my closed eyes I see the wrong vision
A whisper lit in my ear and calmed and reversed my fears
Steady yon heart, step-by-step reverse the wrong choice
Listen to the right still small voice
Turn right to the right course
In all thy ways acknowledge Him
And he will direct thy path
Commit your ways until the Lord, he shall bring it to pass
Bring it to pass all your wrong choices
Awaken to yourself to the right voices
He done to the words of the Lord our God
But trust in ham he will lead you and not let you fall
11/7/19
Written word by James Edward Lee Sr 2019
Psalm 37:5
Oh, how I swoon
in the ruby bliss of your sunset kiss -
your vibrant rays of maturity arouses my fire;
touching me with urgent rapture,
saturating me in sparkles of champagne light, then,
streaming through me in bold shafts of gold.
We embrace
in the broadening bloom of lantana skies -
our burning blend;
your western blaze my prismatic panes
telling biblical stories of love and pain,
bestowing rainbows into depths of dark -
our fervor cast like water-colored sprites
in far-flung illuminations
across dusky medieval arches
enlightening dim granite walls
gracing graceful curves and conscientious columns
in jewel-shades waltzing with your solar pulse.
Our vivacious union reflects our Gothic romance
in mirrored mirages dyeing the staid floor
with painted riches that richly rejoice
in plashes of splashy
orgies of light and glory
the appetite of holy ambiance whet
by warm and cool tones
pregnant with passions of the heart
and imbued with torments and ecstasies
of the soul -
cleaving humanity and divinity
in flaring flair; emerald, sapphire, citrine and garnet,
amid our spellbinding moments
of tantric twilight magic.
Our synergy electrifies
the night-falling quietude of this sacred space
before our enchanted euphoria
begins to wane… and as your dying flame
gives way to the rise of the shy crescent moon
I lose my orgasmic zest
to the evening’s ebon hue.
We’ll be having mimosas and eclairs for Easter,
because I asked myself, “What would Jesus do?”
On another note,
I was having a convo with a new friend
and somehow it spilled that I write a little
- I don’t usually mention it.
So, I’m a Lit-Girl - but I didn’t know it
until I was just informed - named.
A lit-girl writes, so yeah, that’s me.
Lit-girl isn’t that bad a moniker,
it could be worse - I could be called
a diarist - girls are supposed to own
that category - or a blogger.
“Where do you write?” she asked.
“On the Internet,” I mumbled, ashamedly.
‘All I need now is a robot voiceover,’ I was thinking.
It turns out that girls have been writing
on the Internet for ages. You can track it
you know, if you go back in ancient history.
We have a few poetry sites today and Substack
but before that, im told, there was Tumblr, LiveJournal,
MySpace and, of course, scratching on cave walls.
“When did you start writing?’ she asked, as if I must have
magically self-transformed into a writer at some point.
“I trace it back to kindergarten,” I answered, “when sister Ami (a nun)
taught me the alphabet and forced a pencil into my hand.”
Ok, so let me write something already..
My bf and I are enjoying my long school-break weekend. We
have four days to do anything we want to. So we went to a party
- because we wanted to.
Anyway, at this party they had a bathtub filled with ice and bottles of wine, beer and canned Martinis - which, honestly, aren’t that bad.
I thought that was very clever - and it was handy - as long as someone wasn’t peeing.
Happy Easter everyone!
.
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Songs for this:
d£aler by Lola Young [E]
So Easy (To Fall In Love) by Olivia Dean
Another life (feat. Rema) by PinkPantheress
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[E] = Explicit lyrics