Long Monster Poems
Long Monster Poems. Below are the most popular long Monster by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Monster poems by poem length and keyword.
What to do with the remains of a man carved hollow?
After years of war and struggle and hardship,
when his love is stripped away,
his morals stolen by the thief of time.
The people tear him open, then feasting on his open flesh;
What shall the monster do?
He shall retaliate, crushing everything in his path, his sights set on one thing.
To return to his love.
He's already fought blood and bone with the public, now his biggest enemy awaits.
He sits at the edge of the lake, peering at his reflection below.
The battle with the toughest monster has now officially begun.
The universe is a jester and his torturous existence is one of its many jokes.
His eyes wander to the stars dotting the sky above.
They are blazing lies of hope, veiled by the false promise of a granted wish.
Oh, man definitely has a wish. Man is greedy.
He longs for his love.
His ray of light in the darkness, the gentle breeze that clears his storm.
The Earth beneath him recoils, rejecting the weight of what he has become.
His hands curl into fists-- yet the battle is long over.
He tumbles into the lake. He sinks and sinks.
Clawing at anything, absolutely anything to save himself from plunging,
His desperate screams ripped from his throat as he plummets deeper and deeper.
His sudden drop is cushioned by two gentle limbs.
He looks up, and meets someone's eyes-- gentle and familiar.
Fingers threading through the tattered sinew of his soul,
Winding and mending the broken remains of him back together.
Monster falls apart. He has never looked so small in his entire life.
The ghost of unsaid words bubble up as his breath dissolves into the water.
No war, no battle had ever unraveled him like this.
No enemy had left him this bare and vulnerable.
Not a warrior, not even a monster.
Just a man.
And nothing in this world is more fragile, more doomed--
Than a man with nothing left.
The Worst of Them"
Funny how you push me away
Only to beg me to stay
A vicious cycle, a toxic sway
Cut down by your words, day by day
The beating of a broken drum
Echoes the pain you've begun
Your love, an addiction I can't shake
Trying hard to quit, but it's a mistake
Your love's a monster, devouring me whole
Eating away my soul
You hold my hand, yet don't care
Killing me inside, with no repair
You show no mercy, no remorse
Did God make a mistake, or did you force?
A heart of stone, where love should reside
Put a hole in your heart, and maybe you'll feel inside
The agony you inflict, the tears I've cried
The shattered dreams, the love that's died
You're the worst of them, a heartless game
Leaving me broken, with an endless pain
Let go of my hand, and walk away
But know that you'll never see the day
When I'll be whole, when I'll be free
From the chains of your love, that's killing me
In a mother's arms, a cradle of love,
for a precious child, a
haven so tender, sent from above
as ultimate domicile.
Nurturing souls with a gentle embrace,
smile, this picture is for the family
and it cost 59.99 and a month waiting
to get an appointment at this place!...
a vessel of affection, a sacred smiling grace.
Containers hold life's essencies,
so it surely seems.
But seams are usually best for air
for our beasties, so they can ******* breathe.
For in a containers design,
emotions can even preside,
in the container called magic,
an expression of shadow life.
A placeholder of being, waiting to come alive.
The Ark of the Covenant, in it's presence,
we may
find solace, mystery, promises and peace,
or death from arrogance and disbelief
of God's Sacred things.
In containers of life, where our souls find sanctuary, in containers of people,
animals to stage, upon like obnoxious
monster fairies
we revere her "Gaia" you are a rockstar, rock on
and sorry when I pee in your bushes
during roadtrips and for the swords streams, ...i guess.
that is a given, therefore redundant and unnecessary.
In Mary's womb, we find the greatest gift of all.
(If she would have said no, we would have no redeemer, at ALL).
Mysteries are contained, therein.
God could not contain his love, however,
he had to put his container on another to death,
to conquer, secure for us an Eternal container,
to pay for our sins and defeat the containers of
Hell and Death.
But do try to contain yourself.
For, God has it all contained.
A love burning bright
A hatred bringing fright
It ends in a blaze
Two hearts trapped in a maze
You loved your puzzles
For the masses to befuddle
Our blood forms quite the puddle
And the monster guzzles
La, la, la, la, la
You were my first
La, la, la, la, la
Watch my heart burst
When you let go I knew
And the reasons left me blue
Fight after fight I sought reasons why
Not to tell you goodbye
You loved your games
And tricks made your day
These would be your greatest shames
Because eventually you had to pay
La, la, la, la, la
Don't speak to me
La, la, la, la, la
Please set my heart free
La, la, la, la, la
Don't
La, la, la, la, la
Speak
La, la, la, la, la
Please
La, la, la, la, la
Don't
La, la, la, la, la
Speak
Please speak...
It’s the anniversary of her death
I am reminded of it every year
Not so much by the calendar
But by my internal clock of pain
You remember the place
You remember the time
Her look of final peace
Our mother
Our monster
We lived our lives in hell
For all of her drunken antics
We were the ones to feel the pain
She drank
…We suffered
As children we never understood her demons
Did she love us?
Why did she hurt us?
What did we do to make her act this way?
We were innocent
Frightened young souls
Doomed to grow up
Broken…
Shattered…
Pieces scattered throughout our lives
Never knowing how to be whole.
You would have been a hundred this year if you had lived
We have grown to forgive you
Finally finding our place in this world
On our own…
We made it to the other side
So
Farewell Isabelle
You did the best you could
Patty LeDuc
February 4, 2019
Scattered Thoughts 2019
(In memory of Isabelle Krumm)
Glaring the eyes,
through a fern leaf endeavor
Of a dragon who flies
to the ends of this never
With fire for breath
and skin rough and shackled
Afloat of this death
long a path, echoes cackled
And I with my blade
wield a strength not to waver
Through sunlight and shade
for the fair maiden’s favor
This evil unreal,
chains her honor to frighten
bound in iron and steel
in a grip, endless tighten
In dungeons to dwell
past the evergreen mirror
Enchanted of spell
as the mist fades now clearer
Rusted bars honed to keep
her weeping heart sorrowed
In shame painted deep
with words stealthy borrowed
But I shall stand strong,
charging into the fire
To right every wrong
and protect my desire
Now face to face
with this monster like being
When fear it does chase
at the villagers fleeing
I stab at its heart
the blood quickly flowing
Loud screams rip apart
it’s weakness is showing
Now to slice off its head
with my sword ever flying
In moans of the dead
as this dragon is dying
My princess, my one
take my hand, we must hurry
This challenge is done
down the path we now scurry
Till far from this place
with skies ever bluer
I gaze on her face
could her eyes shine much truer
Her lips find my own
her love she is sending
We walk off alone
to our own happy ending
What drives me to post poems every day
Little green men dancing the plié?
Or maybe a monster with one evil eye?
Enormous dragons, oversized flies?
Whatever the subject, I never need fret
The ideas keep flowing, on that you can bet
Like having a baby or baking a pie
It comes quite natural for us gals and guys!
What could it be, is it fortune or fame?
Or could it just be, the thrill of the game
To challenge one's psyche to write every day
Sometimes it's easy, sometimes nay!
Got some advice for newbies among us
Writing every day is by no means a must
It's a goal to shoot for in the days up ahead
But don't lose sleep, it's nothing to dread!
Gently I laid my head on a couch,
And I heard his call.
Making my mind puzzle.
Could it be the call of Samuel or the eternal?
No sooner than later that images of the Angels began to come around.
Floating in the air to answer the call and wearing the crown.
Then I knew this is the call of my friend
My friend and beloved.
Why is this call becoming constant?
And you know I have a mission which must not fail.
I call you my friend for the love you have for me.
Not like some predators that surround me.
The great messenger of the Most High,
I hail you!
Come to my aid to end this agony of illness!
You know
Oh you know that time is not up yet
Purposes and missions are yet to be accomplished.
Not of my will but that of the creator
And when it's time to rest,
May I not rest below any Tyre or crashed metallic monster.
May I not rest below a crashed blocks or sink roof.
May 'I can't breathe' not lead me to rest.
May I not rest as a result of stray on my bones.
Let my rest be sound like a toddler on his mother's arm
And sleep like Abraham to meet my Creator in my aged
Stop oh stop calling!
Except the second coming is at hand.
John Moore
1843-1933
I was born with my lungs full of tarnation.
Leastways that was my mother’s version of it.
I do not believe anyone who was ever born,
Came Into this world kicking,
Leastways not like me;
I tumbled in, kicking like some drifting no account sodbuster,
Ready for the new plough, and the hedge maul.
I grew up in a working family;
My paw farmed our land with maw darning our lives together.
I grew up fast in this torrid sun, working and learning.
With sun-burned hands and forehead,
I scraped a living together, best I could,
And planted the seeds of a thousand children!
But with each passing shivering winter,
Even here in these sunny digs called Whittierville,
I hated the galloping return of the pale horse;
The dreaded infections of the lungs and nose;
Terrible suffering has taken place here, my friends,
Entire families were wiped out in a week,
Slain by a monster with no body!
Leastways that was my mother’s version of it.
This old gravelly graveyard here was busy in 1918;
Last stop for so many friends who died in a dark sick room,
Astonished, I might say, that it was their time to die;
I reckon Mt. Olive, in its greedier times of soft earth,
Has seen half a dozen funerals in a single day.
Leastways that’s what I hear tell,
Coming from Artilissa Dorland Clark herself!
Those were scary times, and the years were dark.
I do not believe anyone who has ever died,
Left this world kicking,
Leastways, not like me… last thing I remember,
I reached up to the ceiling in my sick bed,
And cursed my damned lungs!
For once again, as if by intelligent design,
They were full of tarnation.
How can I live
Marooned in an island of sheep and wolves
Where subsisting depends on cash and brawn?
How can I be rescued
When those to rescue me mistaken my cry
For the bleat of a ram to be hacked for their luncheon?
How can I be at ease
In this volatile ambience sweltering
With mercurial substances of hate, revenge, envy?
How can I feel free
When schools and houses of god nurture pythons
In their wild and sneaky lifestyle to swallow me?
How can I sleep
In this pitch darkness all around infested
By ghosts, witchcrafts, monster, occultists, outlaws?
Though I walk
In this valley of the shadow of death
I fear no death, for death is with me!