Long Nightmare Poems
Long Nightmare Poems. Below are the most popular long Nightmare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nightmare poems by poem length and keyword.
I had a date (not a great date but a date)! Could our covid nightmare be ending?
An actual one-on-one date - can you imagine? It was with Noud, a university student (from Holland) I met a couple of weeks ago.
Noud, to be accurate, is a man. He’s 22 and I’m 17 (18 in 3 months). My mom was skeptical but we’ve been around Noud and he seemed pretty nice. It wasn’t like I was infatuated with him, this was a practice date.
I hadn’t been on many one-on-one dates before this (5). I was thinking my 17th year was gonna be a breakout year for dating - but NOT. The over-a-year pandemic lock-down put an end to that.
Anyway, here’s a date tip for older guys: if you’re sincere about something - say “sustainability” - don’t talk about it at dinner - all dinner. In fact, if you’re an intense, serious person - on any subject - take that secret to your grave.
We had dinner - that we picked up and picnicked with. After dinner, things went all WWE. Once we were back in his car, it was as if I became a birthday present he’d been waiting months to open. He pressed in like that was an established, almost impersonal fact.
For someone claiming to be interested in “sustainability”, he moved to the chest massage - skirt-search portion of the festivities pretty quickly. and that didn’t really work for me.
At one point, wrestling in his tiny electric car - which pitched like a rowboat in an angry sea - I felt his tongue in my eyebrows… yeah, my eyebrows.
“What are you DOING?”, I asked, digging my heals into the floorboard to gain enough leverage to push him away and wiping my face with my sleeve.
“You taste good,” he said (hear it with a slight Arnold Schwarzenegger accent).
“I’m NOT a gelato,” I complained, while maintaining a stiff-arm.
Hey, it was a long lock-down year - we’ve all missed dating, we’re all out of practice and maybe some are trying too hard - I get that.
This isn’t a “metoo” story - Noud took “no” for “NO” once I went to my big, “dog command voice,” but *sigh* Noud will NOT be getting a rematch.
Occurring disturbances echoing through the mind
Felt asleep
Twist and turn
Dreaming feeling like a nightmare
The midst of danger
The dream of enter
It was a person, train and car
Approaching train
A stop at a railroad crossing
Thought of can make it
Car got stuck in the middle
Train steadily getting closer
What do I do?
Do I jump out the car and run?
Meanwhile the train is coming and coming
I could be killed
Suddenly, the car starts and I pull away
The train passes and there was a getaway
Escape being a blessing
Dream as it would seem
But what does the dream mean?
Immediately woke up
Had drenching sweat
Wondered what did the dream surround?
There was danger, but somehow there was protection
Dream over
Went back to sleep
My soul still to keep.
Saturated with fish fry smells, Bar-B-Cue smoke,
rodeo dust and sounds of deep water blues,
with teasing frothing lace spread on the shore,
Gulf Coast birth breeze blew winds
in sails to Caribbean Sea, Blue Mountain
berries, banana walk yam hills,
And coconut rain drops tapping reggae beats
on zinc roof tops on cool verandah nights,
in herb scented air, curling roast breadfruit smoke.
The tarrying there tested the soul,
matured the spirit, fulfilled long tried
attainments of deferred dreams; then
the sea recruited its journeyman again.
Pacific Coast pleaded an adopted native son home. Home
to new sea shore sands dusted in smog self negation
of urbane destruction and self nullification of community,
caught in the veiled nightmare—lurking in the promise land.
Hence, lessons learned from a gospel tower that never knew a church,
yet gave life-lived sermons that put homiletics to shame, crucifying
pipe-dream pie-in-the-sky nuances on the crosses of realities.
Atlantic waves, undulating like rhythmic buttocks, frothed
a scent of magnetism greater than the tightening hold of gravity,
attracting an uneasy soul, searching spiritual solaced sands; only
to discover that the seas all share the same shored design: Yes.
Same shared sorrowful savage slave story! Different sea: same sand.
Now awaits Guinea Coast sunsets and Cape of Good Hope
cul-de-sac early morning sunrises; then on to the sands of heaven.
Regrets are for those who fail to chase their dreams to realities.
balance in life is not easy to achieve,
you may be torn between duty and love,
how you think may not be how they think of you,
your best intentions may be misunderstood!
Here is what I have to say to you...
learn to be kind but do not be weak,
be helpful but do not be a slave,
learn to forgive, but not be passive to evil,
learn to be quick but do not be hasty,
aim high but hurt not those below you,
have wealth but let moral be your guide,
be brave but never be a bully!
in life-tasks know wheat from chaff,
know good friends from those that are not!
but learn to live in harmony with them all,
for worst enemies one day may become friends!
life goes in cycles of have and have not,
so give when you have and never hoard,
when you have not have patience to bear,
when given be humble to receive with gratitude,
the flame of life in you is your very own,
let not others put out that flame for their reasons,
but use it to light good hopes in others!
We have much to learn from the boat in the river,
the boat has to be friends with the waves,
but cannot let the waves dictate its journey!
You are the guardian angel of your own dreams,
do not let others make your dreams a nightmare!
My eyes are neutral
Observing the horizon
Morning may never come
The birds may never chirp
My song may never be heard
If that sun never rises
It'll be because I didn't make it
I'm tired of everything
Though I have no reason to be
I've just got a foolish heart
My reflection reveals something hideous
Because my soul can't shine through
The layers of depression
That cover my body so heavily
And I'm not sure how to get rid of them
I yearn for fields of strawberries
Wearing straw hats and smiles
Watching the lazy clouds float past
With my child on my shoulders
Overlooked by my proud wife
Irony is me finding a glimmer of hope
In the darkest moments of night
When I fail to find slumber
And somber thoughts beckon
I remember to hold on to myself
Voices are the water that hydrate my soul
Allowing positivity to blossom
Displaying even an inkling of gravitas
I just want to feel the comfort of others
So that I'm not alone with myself
Truth be told I'm just a wilted flower
Digging my roots into concrete
Because conditions don't allow me to grow
And even the prettiest dream is a nightmare
When it's something I'll never attain
My eyes are neutral
Observing the horizon
Morning may never come
The birds may never chirp
My song may never be heard
Freewill is a right, we all should be allowed to have our rights.
Right to move about, and live without fear or doubts.
Some say its love, but true love is like a warm blanket that feels, soft and gives comfort, making us feel so glowing through our life.
Some just want control, and to make you wear chains.
Chains of fake love, that make you go insane.
True love is like a river flowing free, making your mind feel at ease.
Loves that care, are always near, they stay through the storms, and give love abundantly.
Control and love, are a mix, because yes we want our loves to be safe, but also don’t want them to die with our need to dominate.
Love is a balance, of many things, like our emotions we need to keep under check, not to high or low, because like the temperature of tea, we don’t want it to burn and cause a scar.
Loves with true intent, are always clear, they work to find the perfect mix.
Some loves, are never going to make it clear, they only want to cause you fear.
Fear of life, fear of death, making it hard for you to see things clear.
Making you feel like you are in a fog, a fog of love that keeps you forever living in a nightmare.
So, let’s move forward with some care, and try to have love and patience with our loves that we care so much about.
Don’t try to scare them with threats, to take them to a place with no light, to make them yours forever with no rights.
True love, will always work to make you feel love in your heart, they will sit with you through all the storms in life.
True love is kind and is gentle, like the feeling of a loving hug, it is never cruel or makes you feel like you need to run for the hill.
Lifting prays for all our loves, that they will be thoughtful and kind through all of life’s storms.
Thank you God, for all your strength on our path home to heaven and our place, may we follow the path of love.
Poor White Trash
By
Patrick Kelly
The sun sinks low over shanty town there, a sweating woman sits on a
dilapidated porch.
She sees herself in the eye of her mind and pictures appear of what might have
been.
She retains her rocker and sweats in unquenched heat, unrelenting ferocity of
the beaten down poor.
With a cigarette between chap lips, she fights off the need to cook, her energy
long departed along with the good of life.
In a silent rage, she screams in anguish yet, there is no one to listen and
nowhere to run.
Too suddenly, her hair has turned to gray.
Her beauty, slowly decaying til all is lost.
Now, wrinkles vanquish the smooth complexion of her youth.
No longer does she smell the sweet aroma of her bed, its luster gone, along
with her pride, with too much despair and too little money.
Sometimes she walks the old dirt road, waiting for the heat to burn off and the
night to embrace the coolness of the late hours.
She dreams of things that might have been before youthful lust became a
nightmare.
She could have walked in beautiful gardens, her home, a pleasure to herself and her one time proud spirit.
She wills the madness to subside, her thoughts splintered upon her return to
realization and the unrelenting heat, dirty dishes and that drunk she calls a
a husband.
Wiping a hand across her sweaty brow, she turns to retrace her steps to her
lowly shelter and the realisation that she is poor white trash.
I saw in her eyes the sallowness of festered love.
My drum had beaten to the resonance of celebration,
Of the deeds of love evaluation.
Her art bemuses me, especially when spoken and
Sketched to the rhythms of assayed hollowness –
Mottled balances echo silently on withered spots,
And the words she cherishes lie way below frontiers of enchantment.
How short my éclat reigned!
And my blood congealed!
Do I lay prostrate to hypoxia?
If I could borrow a leaf from her, I trust it would be the leaf of Love.
And on the edge of skewered times, I would lend the fit of
Pyrokinesis, cauterizing the inclement weather of her deception.
There’s that culture shock which love carries.
It kills and maims, yet lays crusts of veneer on one’s
Premeditated ego, pointing skyward like the finial of
Root-pannelled structure of breathless architecture.
My heart aches to the illusion of several months borne
Through the whim of my angel.
I wake on the brim of her nose.
Her eyes are grey and distant.
Rust besieges her hair with sliced threads of extended harvests.
I level up to her art with a hamster tied to the loose
Slivers of bamboo elements – with a repast so heartlessly
Soured by the sun.
I lean beneath her iron door, long loosened by the courage
Of assembled art.
My heart bleeds.
She lied to me.
As slimy as the mucilage of the okra,
I have shed genuine light of her hidden treasure.
And on a dark, vengeful night on the corridors of April,
Saturn, spinning her icy rings, revealed much.
And her love, deep and garish, traces peregrinations of
A hunter’s search through wooded paths, rain-drenched and musty.
From the shebeen to the sacristy.
The village church bell peals to the beat of my heart – a heart so deceived.
The gloom, structured in gossamer, binds me, haunts me.
Red banners of camwood yield to the moist of invaded space,
Tenebrous, and soused with the tears of a fallen roof.
Flaking tongues of prurient monsters lick my toes in noisy flicks....
God, where have I been?
I am the Alpha/Omega - the first of its kind
The Gods and Goddesses have made up their mind
They give me this role and the sacred knowledge of the Craft
I will always say it how it is - I will never wear a mask
I won't waste my precious energy trying to be someone else
And I refuse to use magick to hurt someone else's health
I will not be the first one who throws a punch
But once one does - your world in the palm of my hand CRUNCH!
'Cause I can be a terrifying nightmare or a seductive wet dream
With me - everything is as it seems
I don't need a hidden agenda - or the desire to bully others
I'm kind to you, if you're kind to me - be kind to one another
I truly do not need to socialize
I've got more important agendas to rectify
I've always wanted to know why humanity is afraid to be alone
I'm the best version of myself when I'm alone in my zone
As a child my mother always asked why I didn't desire friends
'Cause each "friend" winds up with an agenda at the end
Everyone is after something - believe me or simply disagree
In my nearly four decades of living - it continues to happen to me
Fvck around - and the Gods and Goddesses will surely let you see
I don't owe anything to you - so I truly don't care if you believe
I had a nightmare last night that had me shaking in horror
The school nurse told us.
We pulled up chairs to listen,
She was not usually terrified of anything.
She was used to things the rest of us dared not think about.
Wait! Two more yelled. I want to hear!
We surrounded her, staring, expectantly.
In my dream, I got to school next year and
I was told “You are no longer the nurse.
You are a kindergarten teacher.”
I began to protest, since I have never had any training
to be a teacher, but everyone I saw kept saying
“You can do it,” and other compliments.
They led me to a room and it was empty
Nothing on the walls.
I was thinking I need ABC charts, a number line.
I was given a budget of two hundred and fifty
which would not cover snacks for the year.
Then I woke up
Relieved.