Long One sentence Poems
Long One sentence Poems. Below are the most popular long One sentence by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long One sentence poems by poem length and keyword.
The book of our life opened when we were born…from that moment everything we experience…every adventure we ever take or took…are faithfully transcribed upon the pages of that book.
Meaning every day we are alive…every day we age…whether we realize it or not…we’ve written another page.
I’ve often wondered if that’s the reason why we fall asleep at night…to give our heart a chance to think our mind a chance do dream…and our brain a chance to write.
Of course it is our parents who begin the writing…until such time we’ve grown…
old enough to pick up the pen…and begin writing on our own.
We meet so many different people in our life…literally…everywhere we look…which means we will find them mentioned…in the pages of our book.
Some will be a footnote…perhaps in only one sentence they appear…
crossing our path momentarily…and then they disappear.
Others will linger in the pages of our book…their influence reaching far…
for not only do they help to write our story…they help determine who we are.
Some of our pages will be filled with losses…some…will be filled with wins.
This page may be the end a chapter…while on this page…one begins.
Every page we’ve ever written once the ink has dried is there for us to see…as each chapter, each page, each paragraph each sentence…becomes a memory.
And though we cannot rewrite the past…we do control the pen
which means each day when we rise…we begin to write again.…
Adding another chapter to our story…recording all life’s stages…
Hoping when it’s time to close our book…
we’ll be happy with what we’ve written on its pages.
The story teller extrodinare,
He can fabricate everything down to the clothes that he wears,
He can take one sentence and make up fill in the blanks,
And can shoot out quotations like a mad lib game,
He can take what is said and turn it around,
And run with the story to entertain the crowd,
His creativity is off the chart,
He'll consume what is said and use them like darts,
And as you observe his next methodical move,
You'll tell him a story that has nothing to do with you,
His darts won't be flying in your direction,
Because your standing outside the game and can see the reflection.
[]
i call it anger displacement
see how many s i can get in one sentence
etty it
effort is another reason
i seldo
start were i finished
There is very little humanity i tolerate
if i had a
to much effort to give it
little i hate
littler i love
not mad for seeing what's coming
we have doomed ourselves
cant hear for the jet engine high above
as it rips through the sky
I am sorry for the skies
that bountiful blue with cloud creatures astrewn- i know but sounds right
every bladed grass
every orchard paved
all the beaches have no water
just rinse the glass once more
Hope the cats and dogs take over
and reign
I carried places in my arms
that no one else could see.
In other people's words, I found
some room for being me.
My dictionary on my knees,
thesaurus close at hand.
I had so much I couldn't name,
but longed to understand.
One word would lead me to the next,
then something new would call.
I'd only meant to learn one thing
and stayed to learn them all.
I tried new words upon my tongue
and spoke each one alone,
repeating unfamiliar sounds
until they felt my own.
A patient page would find me
when I was feeling low.
I didn't have to hide from it
how much I didn't know.
But house and home, those simple words,
weren't quite the same to me.
One had a roof, a lock, a door;
one let me simply be.
I lingered over one word: safe,
and read its meaning through.
So few words needed to explain
a life I hardly knew.
The pages did not stop the sounds
that traveled through the wall.
Some nights I read one sentence twice
but understood nothing at all.
I kept one finger on the page
when I could not go on.
And when I found my place again
the words were never gone.
In time, I took an empty page
and gave it just a part
of what I hadn't learned to say
but knew so well by heart.
Those words became a sheltered place
where I was free to be.
The girl who found a haven there
still has a home in me.
Before All Men Were Poor
The Sixteen Women..... Why do he think he'll be able to marry her?
All we need to do is introduce her to someone who'll do exact ally what she wants. She wants someone she can brag about and complain about in one sentence. This is so people can understand her disposition. She be a sage amongst those who believe in her truth. Sac rate to those who are in the same circumstance. Her children will stand with her, since they'll be born to believe that what she has taught them in brainwashing.
The Sixteen Men....invoking emotion to merely divide/ Those who believe there is no such thing as love might agree to live with something that has been negotiated through historical references. Capping one's ability to rebound often is meet with resistance. Causing mean spirted conversations and aggressive or retorted conversation. Which is conflicted should have resolution prior to the implementation.
The narrator...depending on the duration of the real area: then where guidance is needed to explain the do's and don'ts within the area(the rules and laws) because they meet when both were single, and continued there relationships throughout there marriages: some would speculate these people taught from the positions of there experiences, giving advice without explaining the circumstance, and laws that govern friendship, marriage, divorce, and money. Since the song needs structure it is wise to. Explain the laws which govern these areas of topic. Why the people are engaged in the conversation anyway. And what gives the people the reason to think that seperating two people is either kind or fair.
Not to be used to make decisions; being informative and useful. These are not mentioned to be used as a substitute for legal advice.
~~~
Like a new house, in my poetry,
you will find a heart built-in.
I am no sharp wit nor in a hurry
to quickly pen, for a poetic win.
If as a poet, it's form comes first,
Then, you won' t find me filling
your thirst!
OR if it's truth in one sentence be
your compulsion?
My poetry for you, is your revulsion.
If heavy imagery be your fancy,
You won't find it in my verse, far
too chancy.
I come from a time when songs
were so beautiful.
Rhyme, to me is fun, and just
naturally plentiful.
I'd talk all day in rhyme, indeed if
only we all could!
Instead of like breaking news alerts,
so heartless and made of wood.
Our frenzy is to the great new god,
multi-tasking, has wreaked havoc on
new generations.
Where Cliff notes has replaced reading
famous literature~ an abomination.
I have tried selling myself out to short form
poetry.
I must say, that so far, only the English
Haiku has worked for me.
January 5, 2020
Noon PST
Her words were mumbled unprovoked and put him through the grinder
minced they were tearing apart they hurt like a dagger so he finally knew
where his heart was dismembered as it stood still one sentence then silence
No stream no consciousness emotion arrested a world destroyed broken shattered
He picked up the pieces the fragments shards of an ugly mosaic coloured in black
The cutting edge of glass penetrated into frozen blood in icy veins turning tattooing
engraving the twisted knife chopping torturing where passion kindness love
had once been the messenger grinning at the grisly gristle ground to the core
With surgical precision her scalpel incised at the flesh scarred in a flash razor
wire ligatures asphyxiating suffocating mortal wounded lost mindless soul
Denervation ensured neurochemical transmitters flowing into nothing a wide open
schism fissures fission exploding with nowhere to venture a road not yet travelled
Blessed in disguise of disaster her words grew into an unlikely story of hope of
a mixture of memories retold new pathways narration novel meaning of words
No more mill stone weighing the rope round the severed necklace of horror
he found undreamt off passion with a new soulmate and lover a poet tree in motion
Weaving kindness now sensual emotional reason scribed on paper fantasy clouds
written on dreams healing momentum of moments nights and cinnamon bark
their sizzling skins their touches feelings new found beauty make love and make
loving and making love with words and with lived meaning worthwhile again
16th June 2016
Opening
The opening line in my story
Gave the reader a nudge
To read the entire tale of prose
To the end that would be golden
The story shook with appreciation
For all the joys they’d found together
Two hearts, two souls, two lives
Bound up into one beautiful thought
The story whispered with imagination
That instructed the reader to dream
And to reach beyond their mere ideas
To the hopes that fall from heaven’s grace
The story was alive with inspiration
To give back to the reader full yearning
For more words and more pages of hope
Discovered within the heart of the story
The story reached into the life of the prose
And hinted at miracles and sweet friendship
Feelings of love that whisper sweetly
To the intimacy that lives within a spirit
The story opened with only one sentence
Powerful enough to conjure up serenity
But gave back to the world a pleasant narrative
Built on soft adverbs and gentle adjectives
The opening line of the tale was poignant
Words that would lift the reader to attention
Drive him on with its everlasting paragraphs
Built on sentences dripping with honeyed serenity
I starve myself.
When saying it out loud it sounds surreal,
But it’s the only way I can feel.
I am not worthy of food.
It is not worth the weight.
Fore I see myself by what I have ate.
Starving is like slowing dying.
Numb, and invisible to what others can see.
Funny how food could be the death of me.
I don’t have the body to match.
And I fear I will always see myself as fat.
You can tell just by looking at me I eat plenty.
My solution being to not eat, to be empty.
The air that fills my lungs now fills my stomach.
But my head fills with words of others,
“You’re too big.” “You should lose some weight.”
These are the words that keeps me up late.
People don’t know how much one sentence can affect me.
Why couldn’t of they just let me be.
Maybe then I would be able to be just a kid.
Maybe I wouldn’t see myself as big.
Sometimes I make myself throw up while sitting on the bathroom floor.
It makes my teeth rotten and my throat sore.
Nothing I do works though.
I am still as big as I was when I look behind at my shadow.
I see all these ‘skinny model girls’ on tv,
And oh god I wish that was me.
Why can’t I just be thinner.
And what makes it worse is the mirror,
Every-time I will lift my jumper and turn to the side,
All I see is how I’ve doubled in size.
I feel disgusted with how I see myself in the reflection.
If I could just redesign each section,
Every single aspect of myself I would inspect.
Every part of my body I would select and perfect.
What I wouldn’t do for a perfect body.
If I could trade my last shaky breath for the body I have dreamt of my whole life,
Maybe then I would love my body, only in the afterlife.
I starve myself,
Yes that’s true.
But it doesn’t have to be for you.
I know you’ve heard this 100 times,
But please eat, and no, not just sometimes.
Food is your fuel.
No body of yours should be treated this cruel.
So go eat a burger, some ice cream and a donut or two.
Food will not be the death of you.
(What To Do When There Is No Inspiration)
I open my mind to music and allow the sound waves to wash over me
then, soaking in the notes as if I were a skilled virtuoso
a master of the arts , I allow the sounds to meld and mesh in me
Lost in the ethereal feel of this peaceful moment ,
I forget about phrases and compositions and begin to focus
on the appearance of color and imagery;
When my soul feels the longing to write like the poets of old,
I rise to the occasion and allow my mind to surprise me
with the many spectrums of written possibilities ;
I inhale deeply and begin my journey home to poetry
Sometimes its one sentence, sometimes just a word
but as I string my thoughts together the music fades
and the beautiful glades of verse, magically appear before me
I give honor to my creative spirit and I give thanks to my muse;
There is no greater satisfaction on earth then being inspired
so after a long stay in the dessert, I give thanks to God
for showing me how to regress back to my original spark.