Long Melancholic Poems
Long Melancholic Poems. Below are the most popular long Melancholic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Melancholic poems by poem length and keyword.
Why do I love you, dreamer born from the morning mist that rises to the sky,
Who coils around my chest like blue smoke, like a vine,
Embracing my temples with your gentle touch like a boundless sea,
Why do I love you, delicate woman, like a blade of grass that cuts the moon in halves,
Letting it sink into waters, separating from itself like two lovers parted,
Why do I love you, melancholic eyes, brown sun rising over my shoulder,
Dragging behind a sky of fragrances and thin clouds that know no shadow,
Why do I love you, unforgettable hour, which instead of sounds races around my heart,
A herd of colts with rebellious manes, running through fields of unspoken desires,
Why do I love you, love, whirlwind of seasons coloring a sky always different and near,
Like a falling leaf, like a breath misted by frost that vanishes in the cold morning air,
Why do I love you so much, in a world where time unravels like a spider's web,
In every passing moment, and yet, in every moment reborn like a dream that refuses to end.
Here, in this love, I find the peace and tumult of a dance of stars that flicker and ignite,
A song without an answer spreading in my soul like the echo of a silent symphony,
Why do I love you, asks the wind carrying your scent through the gardens of my soul,
And the answer gets lost in the silence of the night, in the whispers of the moon watching over sleeping dreams,
And I remain, a traveler on paths of longing, seeking you in every ray of light,
In every breeze and in every heartbeat that knows it will meet you again.
I am like an avalanche slithering in shivering angst,
free-falling into an abyss of an aching era,
where luminous lakes reflect pixelated regrets,
for time throws my canvas into splitting helplessness,
and mind plays tricks in aimless frequency,
framing toneless tenors within paralyzed psyche,
pushing and pulling ivory strings of my ebony heart.
Now I’m dwelling in the chaotic caves of a calculative carnivore,
unable to grasp the lunar light that envelopes forsaken fields,
while crooning caged memories, like a pensive nightingale,
pondering, would the moon ever untangle these starless thoughts?
Or was it written on the wailing walls of melancholic museums~
that I was meant to drown in dizzying darkness?
I’ll rest my pen in a glass casket of equations~
cloaking this crippled conscience from seeing beyond vague visions,
detached from kohl eyes, eager to steal my voice,
as I keep sinking in black and white polarity,
pausing curative prose in screeching silence.
In a world of strange sensations, where desires intertwine like dreams on a summer night,
I find myself caught in the waves of a melancholic melody,
the desire to express all that pains me, words flowing like the blood of a dying man,
careless of linguistic errors, seeking only solace.
My heart, absurd as a man wrapped in a blanket under torrential rain,
my chest arches like blooming roses,
and I fade away, feeling like ashes carried by the cold winds.
Strange sensations of starting to say one thing
and immediately my mind drifts to something else,
a confusion of the mind, a turmoil of the soul.
It snows miserably on the bridges, the dirty basements overflow.
I continue to write through those slow days,
watching dusty robins with blood on their wings,
in a world where pain and beauty intertwine, a dance of shadows and lights.
The little houses that no one sees,
wooden, damp, sinking like abandoned ships;
the door surrounded by unseen creatures,
and the lamppost weeping its last rays of light into the night.
All words seem too small and weary,
to bear the weight of the meanings I sing and weave within them,
a burden of emotions, a symphony of suffering and hope.
Strange sensation of longing
to write these words in vain,
knowing they will never be read again,
a frivolous melancholy, a game of fate.
In this magical reverie, I lose myself in the flow of consciousness,
where thoughts intertwine like the threads of an old carpet,
carrying me through landscapes of memories and forgotten dreams,
a journey through the abyss of my soul, seeking answers in endless shadows.
My words, like dried leaves carried by the cold autumn wind,
seeking solace in their sad rustle,
a symphony of melancholy, a poetry of pain,
wrapped in the mystery of unfulfilled desires and lost hopes.
And so, in the quiet darkness of the night,
I write the story of my soul, in a language only the heart can understand,
a story of suffering and beauty, of light and darkness,
an esoteric revelation wrapped in the mystery of human connections,
a frivolous yet profound story that shapes the essence of life and happiness.
P o e t r y fills my heart
with lyrical acrolect:
slowly swaying
my fingers
to outstanding octaves,
through
ecstatic
liberated librettos,
uplifting in a
medley of
melancholic motions.
I n k is bleeding
in nocturnal nouns,
composing charismatic
choruses in
eclectic shades~
of
violet and vermilion,
and quiet quill
is still searching
for a
sentimental serene serenade,
every letter
meticulously moonwalks
between lines
of silver and grey,
engrossing beats
of a heavy heart
in subtle
soulful synonyms.
In a dynamic
world of word weaving,
poet’s depict a
choir of chronicles
from
mellifluous escapades,
merged in
magnetic metaphors
and synchronized similes,
glamorizing pain
in heavenly
harmonious juxtapositions,
whilst singing tales
of oxymorons,
ranting through a
rhythm of rhymes,
forming sonorous sonnets
with sensitive syllables.
But these are
encrypted musings
of my citrine heart.
In realms of a reality
that dreams breathless~
behind a
terrain of tercets
and porcelain prose.
For life as
an abundant artist
is a premature platform,
where e m o t i o n s
are expressed through
introverted introspections
once hidden in
the hush of hours.
In the valley of the academics, in the night that falls like a spider's web over the world,
I see them moving, like pale shadows, struggling in their golden cages,
They, who fancy themselves independent thinkers, who think they are eagles soaring in blue heights,
But they are just domesticated doves, with clipped wings and gazes lost in the distance.
I see them wearing their masks of rebels, pouring their words like enchanted potions,
But deep inside, they are legions of kneeling souls, submissive and docile,
They are the most socialized of all, the most conformist, the tamest of the wild dreamers,
And, in this play of shadows and lights, they find the illusory comfort of a quenched revolt.
In their minds, wheels of thoughts spin, like an old clock, but its hands never show the hour of truth,
For they are prisoners of a system that has stolen their will, sucked the sap of their courage,
And, in this abyss of dependency, they are the most pampered, the most spoiled,
Like children who have never known the harshness of life, only the sweetness of lies.
I hear them murmuring in the secrecy of the night, singing their melodies of revolt,
But their voices are just lost echoes, among the thick walls of the system,
For their lack of independent thought is a disease that cannot be cured,
And thus, they are always deceived by the tricks of a system that enslaves them without chains.
They are bitter and powerless, yet they believe themselves rebels, they believe themselves heroes in a world of dreams,
And, in this sweet-bitter illusion, they find solace, without knowing,
That they are just puppets in the hands of an unseen puppeteer, who pulls their strings,
And thus, they dance, without realizing it, in a tragic and melancholic ballet,
In which they will never be free, will never be truly alive.
Surging storm of turmoil splitting apart the falling sky
blows with blasting fury through the splintered mind
the flaring wrath burns like the blazing badland bush
searing the disgruntled soul to a stack of anguished ash.
The sky would be seamless again and construct the clouds
adrift with the revived ruins rising from the halcyon horizon
dissolving in the melancholic psyche making pearls of dew
adorning the meadow of mind free from the mist of sorrow.
In the gust of freedom the clumps of cloud float away far
as the shining stars glow bright in the moonlit silken sky
the satin surf of stardust wafts in the rapturous radiant air
making in my mind aurora of astral ambiance of tranquility.
Across the topography of soul the stream of jubilation flows
saturating my parched essence and whispering, I live my life
as my own, drinking always the ambrosia of joy without hiatus
and sail on the wind of rhapsody to the beguiled bay of bliss.
February 11, 2021
Contest (N-A) : Joy Continuum
May 4, 2021
Contest : Final 2021 N-A Choice 3
Sponsor : William Kekaula
"The summer night is still and sweet
With flowers on every tree
Peace comes to them on quiet feet"
Whose hearts, like sages, so free
Balsams just like purple-dark stars
Shining as though from the floor
Glowworm-bubbles as if from Mars
Knocking the night angels door
Mingled with the breeze so charming
Moody melancholic minds
Happiness-filled and hearts warming
Singing litanies of saints
Beggars, refugees, and dogs stray
Seem to sleep so peacefully
Somewhere in some land far away
Lullabies heard leisurely
01 June 2021
Choose Your Form 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
Thoughts about how to be adequate flow through my mind like relentless waves,
Persisting in their demands as they echo my name,
This world, a wild beast that cannot be tamed.
The weight is immense and unyieldingly harsh,
Weakening my once tested stature,
Turning me into another Atlas,
Bearing a suffering that knows no cure.
How much longer can I endure this trial?
Feeling so inherently insecure,
My life shrouded in obscurity,
Am I destined to hold on, chained by destiny?
I fear that my strength will wane,
For if I falter, I’ll drown in my sorrows,
Seeking solace in bottles of emptiness,
Quenching my unquenchable thirst,
Fooling myself with tomorrows that softly whisper sweet lies.
I must not let go, for some depend on me like Apollos in celestial dance,
I yearn for strength, for inspiration to borrow,
To continue bearing this heavy, unrelenting yoke.
In a world tangled in the net of doubt,
I carry the burden like a tree bent by merciless winds,
Branches outstretched like the arms of an invisible titan,
Each leaf, a hope waving in the winds of change.
My thoughts dash through oceans of pressure,
Where the waves of ambition crash against the rocks of reality,
Their foam, a mist of confusion and fear,
Yet beneath the surface, currents still carry dreams bound in resolve.
I often wonder if the ground beneath my feet is solid,
Or if I will fall, a shooting star, into the abyss of misfortune,
Working silently under the weight of the world,
I find strength in the eyes of those who stake their hopes on me.
Though the path is overgrown with long, dark shadows,
The inner light still flickers, fragile but tenacious,
Finding solace in the unsung songs of the future,
An unwritten poem, a symphony of possibilities.
Thus, I keep walking this melancholic and mystical journey,
A solitary sentinel of my own thoughts,
Crushed under the weight of relentless trials,
Yet always hoping for the strength to endure one more day.
STROLLING IN THE VIBRANT OF AUTUMN
Strolling down the park, marvelous sight of wonder,
God’s beautiful landscape in kaleidoscope. My heart
in salutation in vibrant color of the leaves. Celestial
spheres, seems to meet the earth and sky, in bright
hues of stunning red, orange, yellow and purplish
nirvana.
Hand in hands, we strolled, emerald green and
gold splashes walkways. Beds of mums in rustic
classic, some view in bright solid chromatic hues.
The kinder breeze, sending the aroma of
thanksgiving feast.
We felt melancholic in the woods, trees dressed
in elegant gold, tears of farewell, to find rest
on cold grave.The sounds of crickets, signals
male calling, a night of dating. Migrated monarch
butterflies, finding a warmer home, to lay eggs.
Squirrels and herbivorous hare, busy digging burrows,
storing food for winter chill. That afternoon walk brings
romance in scented cold air. We tap dance to the tune
of crunchy leaves, stomped, laughed and rolled on the
bed of crisps and colorful leaves.
©aroque
All rights reserved
In the quiet of the evening, where shadows whisper secrets to the moon,
A tale unfolds, a melancholic dance of power and deceit,
In corridors of marble, where echoes of ambition resonate,
The addicts gather, cloaked in the guise of leaders,
Their hearts heavy with the weight of their insatiable hunger.
Oh, how they weave their intricate webs,
Threads of lies spun from the depths of their need,
A need so profound, it consumes their very souls,
Turning them into specters, lost in the labyrinth of their desires.
They feast on promises, devour trust with ravenous fervor,
Like junkies, they crave the rush of control,
The intoxicating power that seeps into their veins,
Blinding them to the wreckage they leave in their wake.
In their frenzy, they sacrifice the innocent,
Offering up dreams and hopes on the altar of their addiction,
A cruel ritual, a testament to their relentless pursuit,
For in their eyes, nothing is sacred, nothing is spared.
And the people, the silent witnesses to this tragic play,
Their voices drowned in the cacophony of falsehoods,
They watch as the addicts stumble, fall, and rise again,
Chasing the elusive high, the fleeting moments of triumph.
Yet, in the depths of this darkened theatre,
A glimmer of truth remains, a fragile light in the abyss,
A reminder that beyond the greed and the lies,
There lies a world untouched by the taint of their addiction.
And so, the evening whispers its melancholy song,
A lament for the lost, the broken, the betrayed,
A plea for redemption, for a return to a time,
When power was a burden, not a drug,
And leaders were guardians, not addicts,
In this eternal dance of shadows and light.