Long Mistaking Poems
Long Mistaking Poems. Below are the most popular long Mistaking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mistaking poems by poem length and keyword.
Take me in your heart
Keep me in your soul
Rip me all apart
Leave me in pieces on the floor
Left me for dead
You said you’d never leave
In what you said
You made me wholeheartedly believe
Now I’m sleeping alone in this bed
Bleeding is my heart for you
Miss what you have to say
Long or all that you do
Guess that’s the price that I’ll pay
For falling so deeply for you
No sense faking it
You just couldn’t take it
You were the one mistaking it
There’s no forsaking it
Bleeding is my heart
Thinking back to when you held me
Rocking tightly in your arms
Just didn’t see
How I fell so quickly for your charms
You were so easy to love
So easy to hold
Seemed we’d fit just like a glove
How could you be that cold?
Sweet misery gave me a hard shove
Bleeding is my heart for you
Miss what you have to say
Long or all that you do
Guess that’s the price that I’ll pay
For falling so deeply for you
No sense faking it
You just couldn’t take it
You were the one mistaking it
There’s no forsaking it
Bleeding is my heart
So hurt and extremely wounded
Don’t know if I’ll ever be the same
Suppose I should have tuned in more
For that I’m mostly to blame
Wasn’t asking you to marry me
But I really didn’t expect this
I can’t just let this be
Not yet it’s just not quite in me
It’s you I miss
And I long for your kiss
So hurt and extremely wounded
Don’t know if I’ll ever be the same
Suppose I should have tuned in more
For that I’m mostly to blame
I could have loved you
But you walked away
Cold and heartless
With nothing to say
In ye old days of yore on Malaga's dreary shore
An untidy castle rimmed by salty moor
Housed a lonely, oft-drunk matador
In briny marsh grazed no sheep, but wild pigs three score
Staggering oft around soggy, muddy estate in boozed, dazed state; prating conquistador
With fitted bed sheet he dodged each, wild, voracious boar
On one fateful eve a rabid boar did his flabby posterior gore
Now ambitions stored, bedded his dreams, salved his sore
'Til one morn, a damsel in distress swooned at his door
Bereft of virility, but saddled with tales of chivalric lore
A hearty tonic the prone maiden he did pore, and spouted tawdry tales galore
Unentranced by availing circumstance, his rambling advances she did ignore
Intoxicated by her lovely essence, her father's residence did implore
Confounded by his incessant inebriating pleas, she fell to the floor
Mistaking her bended knee as fealty to be, he let out a drunken roar
Enraged by his licentious intentions, she yelled, I will not take any more
Mind numbed from numerous droughts, he heard, I am your whore
Giddy, his infertile, limp shaft tried into her sweet mound to bore
But his drooping shaft could not breach her silty core
Frustrated the horny goad reversed positions. riding her till both were saddlesore
Finally breaching the chasm, his spent rod found reeling a chore
But her tapped well gushed and she yelled encore
Now understanding his riding days were over, he cried and swore
His ripening virgin unsatiated bade his pallid pilot her canyon explore
Now contrite, he explained fertile streams no longer from stagnant fount could pore
Giving due penance, purged the dross, and from her steamy vat tore
Forevermore an unfit paramour, jilted matador; who no longer his tainted cape wore
I’m sorry I never fit inside the rooms you gave me.
The walls bent inward,
doors swelled shut,
and I mistook silence for safety.
I’m sorry —
I’m sorry for every quiet collapse you never saw,
for the teeth I swallowed instead of words,
for becoming a stranger in the house you built.
I’m sorry —
I’m sorry for leaving them in the dark,
for the sharp edges I handed them as toys,
for not learning softness soon enough.
I’m sorry —
I’m sorry for being her doubted light,
for suspecting every kindness, as undeserved as may be,
for ever thinking her hands could be knives
when they only ever stitched me back together.
At least you have the leather cut by my own unsteady hands,
and the thread pulled through skin and paper.
Every seam knows my fingerprints,
every sheet carries the tremor of being chosen.
Your words fall into them
like rain into cupped palms —
I hold them,
ink-wet and breathing,
long after you’ve left the room.
I’m sorry for the mirrors I broke on purpose,
so I wouldn’t have to see the face
I already hated.
I’m sorry for the jars I hid underground —
breaths I never let go of,
fragments of days I left unlived,
songs I hummed only to the dark.
I’m sorry I never knew how to hold quiet without smothering it.
I’m sorry I never knew how to hold noise without flinching.
I’m sorry for every time I confused love with survival.
For staying in wreckage,
because leaving felt worse than burning.
I’m sorry I called myself stupid before anyone else could.
I’m sorry I rehearsed unworthiness so often
it became a prayer.
I’m sorry for falling in love with character,
for clutching uniqueness like a life raft,
for mistaking rescue for belonging.
I’m sorry for the softness that terrifies me —
for flinching at gentle hands,
because storms were the only language I learned.
I’m sorry for being unreasonable,
for knowing it,
and still not knowing how to stop.
I’m sorry for every apology
that feels like an exit.
I’m sorry for how often
I’ve written my own ending in my head.
I’m sorry this sounds like goodbye.
What's needed to write good poetry
A vivid imagination and flair
General knowledge and a good vocabulary
Much love and you're almost there
A sense of humour is also important
Each is unique as they say
Adding their own personality to verse
Helps stay ahead of the fray
There's no magic potion one can take
Poetry come from within
There's no mistaking it, you'll surely know
When accolades start pouring in
The thrill you get when someone applauds
It's so very hard to describe
Over the moon is one way of putting it
Feel like you've finally arrived
What's really needed to write good poetry
Dedication, dedication, dedication
A burning desire and a passion for writing
A passion without hesitation
When I feel like crying,
Because my prayers aren’t heard,
I remember, I’d be lying,
If I didn’t thank God for His word.
When I feel like complaining,
Because my life is so dark,
I remember the joy remaining,
Where God’s love has left its mark.
When I feel like I’m all alone,
Because my burdens are ever near,
I remember One my soul has known,
One whose light is so very clear.
When I feel like giving up,
Because my sorrow is too much,
I remember His amazing grace cup,
And all the love in His touch.
When I feel like life’s been wasted,
Because my hopes have been crushed,
I remember all the wonder I’ve tasted,
As each doubt has been hushed.
When I feel like I’ve lost,
Because my heart is breaking,
I remember what it cost Him,
Saving so there was no mistaking.
When I feel like I have no reason,
Because life is full of grief,
I remember, despite His treason,
Jesus even saved the thief.
When I feel like praying,
Because only God can fix things,
I remember that all I’m saying,
Will be heard by the King of Kings!
When I feel I’m not worth saving,
Because I’ve sinned so gravely,
I remember all my worst depraving,
Can’t spoil what He accomplished so bravely.
When I don’t have the words to offer thanks,
And nothing I can say can show my gratitude,
I remember that He said love will fill in the blanks,
So I’ll give Him all this heart He so gently pursued.
I am sorry, I didn't tell you,
What my heart said long ago.
It said it loved beating for you.
It said its emotions were long due
To be spoken out to you.
I am sorry, I didn't tell you,
That my brain couldn't hault,
Caricaturing your pictures
Hallucinating your images,
Mistaking it as a fault.
I am sorry, I didn't tell you,
My eyes couldn't see
A life without you.
I ignored it's voice ,
Thinking let it be.
I am sorry, I didn't tell you,
My tears talked about you
My happiness spoke words of you.
My ears whispered too,
But, I didn't know what to do.
I am sorry, I didn't tell you,
I couldn't imagine,
Me without you.
“50 Words for Poe: Lillith”
Lillith was a cat on a hot tin roof
all coiled up ready to spring
Cat on a hot tin roof
dancing bare feet on a bare floor, cold bed without springs, locked in her own mind, a locked door
you could feel the heat rising off her
like heat when rain hits blistering bitumen, steam slowly raising the atmosphere, electric, charged
She smelt like heat and rain
and fresh cut silver grass and lemonade
Her mind was like the ocean
She rolled her hips as she swayed in her tight skirt
bare feet in a room next to Terror
In Room No.9
Lillith, kind of entranced in her own fire, wired
Turns her back on shadows
in the mirror
Terror’s knocking on her wall
She turns up the music in her mind, higher
She was New
after all
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/dhGETVlOM0Y
“Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.”
“We are all living in an illusion and mistaking it for reality.”
He did not crown himself.
You placed the crown upon his head.
Once bitten, twice blind—
you called him savior,
but he was only a mirror,
reflecting your own illusions.
He walked not as a leader,
but as an actor upon the world’s stage,
a jester wearing the robes of power,
and the crowd cheered,
mistaking laughter for light.
You saw the signs in 2017—
the arrogance,
the fire of division,
the theater of rage—
yet you danced to his song,
believing democracy could never fall.
But he is not the disease—
he is the symptom.
The fever that reveals the rot
within the republic’s bones.
Money became your god,
popularity your priest,
and truth was crucified
on the altar of entertainment.
Now the world watches,
not with envy,
but with sorrowful amusement—
for even fools have learned
how easily a clown can rule a kingdom.
O America,
you who once taught liberty to the earth,
now tremble beneath your own laughter.
He is not your king—
he is your reflection.
And in his madness,
your democracy performs its last act—
applauded by the blind,
and mourned by the wise.
The mystery woman was an angel-
Unknown to all, until the farewell!
Issued solely by the Lord of Lords,
To resolve things that He abhorred.
In a move shattering the orthodox,
God created a marvellous paradox-
Of two completely opposing facts,
While still leaving reality intact.
She was the smoke, without any fire,
She was the chorus, without a choir;
Like a dream that fades upon awaking,
Like a stranger in the fog mistaking.
Quietly, covertly, did she contrive,
Like busy bees in their little hive;
But lived always in His secret room,
Undaunted by any difficulty or gloom.
She truly was here, yet also was not,
Sweet as the cardinal's first apricot;
The stronger reality, however, lingers-
Somehow she slipped through our fingers!
What's needed to write good poetry
A vivid imagination and flair
General knowledge and a good vocabulary
Much love and you're almost there
A sense of humour is all important
Each is unique as they say
Adding their own personality to verse
Helps stay ahead of the fray
There's no magic potion one can take
Poetry come from within
There's no mistaking it, you'll surely know
When accolades start pouring in
The thrill you get when someone applauds
It's so very hard to describe
Over the moon is one way of putting it
Feel like you've finally arrived
What's really needed to write good poetry
Dedication, dedication, dedication
A burning desire and a passion for writing
A passion without hesitation
© Jack Ellison 2014