Long Papers Poems
Long Papers Poems. Below are the most popular long Papers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Papers poems by poem length and keyword.
...His starting point, after much hustling,
was a diner at the edge of the town,
the man who had once built massive bridges
now spent his days at work frying hash browns.
Working for a pittance, day after day,
the only place that would dare give him pay.
About three months into doing such work,
just after the breakfast rush was complete,
he saw a woman enter the diner,
with two young boys, she looked about forty.
Time had done little to Alan’s ex-wife,
Whitney was a queen, hallowed in his sight.
He tried to hide, but Whitney caught a glimpse,
a flabbergasted look clear on her face,
but he made no move to go talk with her,
and she had two kids, could not leave her place.
His heart pounded until Whitney had left,
seeing her moved over felt much worse than death.
She had proclaimed that she would stand with him
when the accusations first had been made,
but the media had taken its toll,
he had watched her resolve drain, day by day,
until the day that the verdict had come,
when he’d been locked up, then it had been done.
She’d started divorce, he didn’t contest,
it was something he could not do to her,
she’d wanted children, normal existence,
all the things that a good woman deserved.
With him in prison, that would be denied,
so he’d signed the papers, and said goodbye.
It had been simple, before he’d been freed,
when he had not had a reason to hope,
now, seeing her, with some other man’s kids,
seemed beyond his ability to cope,
a wound that wouldn’t heal, slowly bleeding,
making him question the point of being.
But the next day, when his shift was over,
and he was walking slowly for the bus,
he saw a G-wagon, and his Whitney,
and his heart started racing then because
there were no kids there, no shield she could use,
confronting this was what he could not do.
But she came forwards, her face fresh with tears,
struggling hard to keep herself composed,
until she broke down, and embraced Alan,
saying, “I’m sorry…how-how could I know?
I’m not sure how to deal with this because
I don’t know why she would do this to us!
“Now I’m left looking at a man I love,
that I abandoned, I’m ashamed it’s true…
We were so happy, but now all I see
is all the things that I’ve taken from you.
The life you deserved, that I thought we’d build,
her lies and my weakness…it’s all been killed.”
CONTINUES IN PART III.
10/10/2019
I tried to write today, but I couldn’t manage it.
You see, there’s a speck of dirt stuck to the paper.
I tried not to let it get to me, but to no avail,
And had already begun trying to get it off.
Scratching at it was no use, I couldn’t get under the thing.
And washing a paper would defeat the purpose.
It seemed impossible to pry off.
I can’t live with it in my sight, yet can’t throw it away.
I’ll have to take my mind off it somehow,
So I can rest easy tonight.
Just the thought of it will haunt me.
Tomorrow I can write again.
10/11/2019
I got another piece of paper today,
And had managed to get the speck out of my head,
Just long enough to get some thoughts out.
But something else is bothering me.
Now that I think about it, I can’t stop myself.
All the abnormalities of the patterns on the wall,
The crumbs on the desk,
Even the nearly invisible creases in this paper.
I need to get out a bit more,
There’s no way I can function like this.
I can talk more when I’ve dealt with this,
But for now this is all I can think about.
10/12/2019
I couldn’t go to sleep last night.
I had turned on the fan in my room,
But its spinning motion had fascinated me.
The quink motion blurs it together,
But if you focus on a single blade, following it,
It starts to become clear.
After a while I decided to get up.
There was nothing to do, but anything was better
Then staring at the cursed fan.
I found a rubber wall stick toy, molded into the shape of a dragon.
My brother probably got it from a teacher.
After spending the rest of the night trying to keep the wings apart,
I passed out.
10/13/2019
I can’t stay in this house,
The abundance of dust has only become more clear.
My brain won’t rest and I’m seeing things I haven’t before.
The edges of my nails that are begging to be cut,
The imperfections in the palms of my hands,
The papers not all in a straight pile,
The lines of my handwriting inhabiting them,
The dust scattered over the tables,
And the finger marks breaking the unity.
My head is spinning
And I can’t make it stop.
Round and round the ceiling goes.
10/14/2019
Ah, the beauty of sleep medicine.
I finally had a good night’s rest,
And I think I have an idea on what to write about.
Until next time, Journal.
And please, deal with the erase marks,
I need a break.
-Connor Lotts
(***warning ungapatchka language ahead***)
Flush with rage the spouse will become allied
if reference made how she buzzfeeds disorder
altercation especially likely if divorce blurted
making me wish to experience (immediately)
bartered bride, when mine pointed finger doth
nonverbally chide markedly appalling untidy
predilection she blithely exhibits woeful scant
interest to maintain can-do spirit affecting plea
zing aesthetic humble abode ofttimes slacking
off cleaning trail of abomination, which talent
includes unwittingly cultivating qua primordial
soup possibly duplicating conditions when life
originated (bajillion years ago) on planet Earth
witnessed courtesy think gummy, groovy, gooey,
gloppy, (nippy, nap, noopy) protoplasmic slimy
oozing blob (starring Steve McQueen) amoeba
like swallowing small towns with names such as
Chester Springs, Downingtown, Phoenixville,
& Royersford hungering, hinting, and hankering
to hasten home hearing Harris harridan hooligan
hoopla conniption purportedly linked into order
issued courtesy board of health for hen pecking
wife to hustle & make house beautiful for Biden
(accompanied with hit parade) announcing (yea)
at long last Republican administration overhaul
which fête yours truly slated to host determined
(weeks ago), thus necessitating legally wedded
counterpart to apply elbow grease in tandem to
render spic & span where unsightly food scraps,
soiled clothes, scattered papers, et cetera strewn
helter skelter, the disarray the culmination of 4+
years occupying these digs in Schwenksville, Pa.
Upon being told "get the place in ship shape order"
she went ballistic like bupkis fired out me gluteus
maximus, (whereat I couldn't help but think ICBM)
yea, an incongruous thought as she rattled vitriolic,
colorful expletives coarse language enough would
make sailor blush shutting his yapper uttering before
he even uttered "shiver me timbers," hence clatter
and din created cacophonous noise as my fair lady
affected one woman siege warfare as pots and pans
flew pell mell thru air while I took refuge in fallout
shelter unused since total mortal kombat destroyed
major swath of webbed wide world, global debacle
our dear leader triggered (when in pensive mood) he
lobbed weapons of mass destruction after being axed
to "go back home" meaning his mother planet Uranus.
"I ain't gonna be nothing,
Cos it seem like f'ever I've been longing."
Tears in the eyes, phlegm in the nose,
Skin so sore, malady of the toes.
Helter-skelter, yet, nothing to show for,
Studied chemistry and physics what have I got?
I've got nothing, but walking,
Turning like a wheel, with no Boris,
Fishing and hunting, yet no prey,
A thousand padlocks and just two keys.
Governments say what they won't do,
Making us seem as big fools,
Manifestoes, flap-doodles;
Serving trimmed rubbers as noodles.
"Eat, eat, eat" they bade us,
Proud to champion course unjust.
Queen of s, Lord of tongues,
Sharpened bolox, Seasoned guts.
Now they stand as the saviours,
Voice so high, dreading as thunder.
More they speak, more they hunger,
Nourished with lies, growing fatter.
What do we do, what are should?
'nough of savagery, 'nough being fooled.
Hey hey hey I'm talkin' you.
You you you you you you you.
Y'all wake up, wake from slumber,
'Nough of dearth, 'nough of hunger.
We goan be sleepers death after,
Now eyes are open, why the scar?
If its dirt they're tissue papers,
Come for bucks, here is a dollar,
Buy the one which is cleaner,
Use it on your eyes and see clearer.
You should now see, yea better,
Humans like you claiming beggars.
Those then begging, now are loiters,
Those then loitering, now are robbers,
Those then robbing, now are killers,
Those then killing, now are prisoners,
Those then in prison, met their demise.
And on and on, Same thin' O'er and O'er.
And we live on in myopia,
Till perhaps come the rapture.
Now we need revolution,
Bundle up and throw out corruption.
Right in our palm is solution,
But we've been feared by confusion.
Change prior to conviction,
Let's agitate for lib'ration,
Kill who should die as oblation ;
Those who're swimming in corruption.
For e'ery bribe they get commission,
E'en loot their congregation,
Loaning 'em to indecision.
Spare no seed of transgression.
Even the bible make no exception ;
The book of proverbs even in extension,
In chapter six verse eighteen makes a correction:
Only the death of the innocent is a transgression,
But of the wicked? Sure purification.
The first two lines would come no more,
If we do what is right as we ought.
19:08:17:18:35
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. We, You, I.
My love, Josefin Slab
My first thought the time I wake up
My inspiration in moments I create art
My joy when we chat and laugh together
My strength when I'm on job
The last person I contact before my sleep
The only girl in my mind
The beautiful creature I found
With your sweetest voice and charming smile
With your amazing chatting emoji and laughs
And that walking-dancing baby emoticon
With your crazy mind I love
One with wonderful picture posing
With your brilliant yogurt skin color
With your perfect dressing fashion
With your fantastic ideas and advice on me
From your inner attracting power
A person I can submit my soul to
A person I commit to end in love with
I'm too favored to meet and know you
It isn't enough saying I'm crazy about you
You made me love
You're my weakness.
You make mincemeat of attention on calling my name
It's splendidly something we're grabbing ourselves at
My sleight of hand is premiered by your discernment
But understate yourself in giving someone a drubbing
And provide no rooms for amendments on your skids
Which depreciate the possessions in your proficiency
To affect wiping the floor with joyous love of ours
Really that it needs our synergistic ink to put on paper
I wish to destruct that part of you, likewise you'd
Unto me to paint the tints, shades and tones of loveliness
To sketch the signs of courage and put tolerance details
Keeping warm hues and cold saturations on our tongues
Kindly I request to open your mind and meet with mine
That we can share such fruitiness as matching goals
Safely and sufficient enough getting to our destined cliff
Though you impairs the ontology behind, I quite wonder!
I'm no more down at heel as you slowly met
And no longer experience little love laughs
Which solemnly stole my entire belief on
To smell the sense of dirt on our papers
By free graphite shine no other can see
In that a wild manner stirring sincerity up
My keen to rub the dots of one another
An eraser whose outcome is dusty
The pixels I granted to suit the resolution
The saturation of my tolerance being warm
With all recipes from your soul make up
Frozen springs partly exploiting our intent
A little I'd hatch is a one you crossed
A garment you wore set your eyes into no blink
That my feet found no sand to stand on
But only sweet regrets and sad charms to fall in.
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
I chuckle soft when people fume,
And blame the lot in suits and gloom.
“You see those leaders? All a scam!”
But who’s still selling free yarn?
Was it not your own cousin’s name,
On that campaign with matching frame?
The nurse who sighs, “This ward’s a zoo,”
Still checks her brows in selfie view.
She posts, “On duty, Lord be praised,”
While someone’s gasping, soul half-raised.
Yet when they moan the state’s unwell,
She nods, “It’s true,” then rings the bell.
The lecturer, with paunch and tie,
Reads ancient notes with weary sigh.
He shares some grades with knowing nod,
Then says, “This country’s truly flawed.”
He blames the youth for lack of grit—
While half his class just pays to sit.
The copper parked on potholed street,
Asks, “Where’s your licence? Papers neat?”
He grins, “Let’s talk,” with greasy grin,
While tucking morning bribes within.
By noon he’s shouting on the news—
“Society’s gone down the loos!”
We roast the system every day,
With memes and gifs in strong array.
Yet scroll past queues to dodge the vote,
Then mourn when goats are running boats.
We ask for change, yet shift no ground—
Just echo tweets that spin around.
The tailor swears, “Your cloth’s near done,”
But dances at his niece’s fun.
The mechanic says your car’s in queue,
But joyrides round like Fast & Few.
Then tells his mates, “This land’s a mess!”
While wearing shoes you just redressed.
The market lady shifts her scale,
And bags your rice with hidden shale.
The youth who screams, “We must rebel!”
Still ghosts his friend to chase one belle.
We all want justice, loud and bold—
But sow deceit like coins of old.
The pastor thunders, “Give and live!”
Then buys a Benz you helped to give.
He claims the Lord approves his flight,
While dodging tax in holy light.
He’s not alone—we’re in this stew,
From deacon’s pew to bus queue too.
So when next time you curse “the throne,”
Recall—it doesn’t stand alone.
That golden seat’s not self-assigned,
It’s built from all we’ve undermined.
To mend the roof, don’t shout and frown—
Pick up a spade, rebuild your town.
You want clear roads? Then drive with sense.
You want fair rules? Then stop the fence.
It’s not by screaming, “God will run it!”
While jumping queues with cheek and sonnet.
The mirror’s clear, it doesn’t bluff—
We are the system. That’s enough.
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Once upon a time there lived,
A beautiful girl and a man she loved.
So true was such their love,
There wasn't anyone who disapproved.
It had been love at first sight,
A fairy tale since that day.
The maiden had found the man of her dreams,
No one else needed to have a say.
They had done it all,
Candlelight dinners, shyly holding hands,
Kissing in the rain, dancing around trees,
Leaving intertwined footprints on white sands.
But it wasn't just another love story,
It was uniquely special like every other one.
They had eyes for no other but one another,
The best part of their lives had just begun.
They traveled around the world,
And she kissed her man at the seven wonders each.
People would smile at the storybook couple,
As they counted stars standing on a beach.
With her, he was the man he wished to be,
The one who wouldn't think twice,
About pulling her up to dance in a crowded train,
He'd protect her, keep her happy at any price.
He'd see through her weak smile,
All the way to the tears inside,
He'd whisper sweet things in her ear,
Hold her till all the tears dried.
Though they did have a fair share of problems,
They always came together again,
No matter what happened,
Like raindrops on a window pane.
On a rainy day, she had sat waiting,
Wondering about the surprise he had promised,
But he never came,
For the winds of fate had suddenly changed.
Five years after that day, she found herself alone,
Sitting on the porch, counting stars on her own,
As she recalled the day he had been taken from her,
'An unfortunate accident' on the next the papers had shown.
She hadn't cried on the phone, she hadn't cried on the way,
She didn't even cry when she had to identify him,
Not a single tear or a heartrending sob.
She just stared ahead with an expression so grim.
It was only when she had received his belongings,
The remnants of his last minutes, did she react.
She screamt and cried, laughed and wailed,
For among others, was a diamond ring beautifully packed.
His surprise, the laughter in his voice,
The excitement, the secrecy of the evening.
He had been right, it had left her breathless,
But he wasn't there to see the sorrow it did bring.
Even now her eyes brimmed with tears,
As she looked at the ring as it sparkled,
And thought of that time when there lived,
A beautiful girl and a man she loved.
- Miliya Parveen
When I was a very young girl a tragedy filled my world
I watched my sister's blood soak the snow on the street
she died while I stood with mom ... I still hear mom screaming
and I went into a silent world and though I heard- I refused to speak
I was in a dark and lonely place, so alone, so lost, so afraid, and sad
Then, grandma reached into my dark world with her kind voice
she would sit me on her knee and tell me her made up stories
you see, grandma was the family storyteller and I loved her so much
she will always and forever be my part of my heart and soul
I listened to so many of her stories and I became a storyteller too
I can recall watching her face while she spoke a story to the family
and I was fascinated with her facial expressions and tone of voice
though, I had heard her stories hundreds of times I would still listen
she encouraged me to write- giving me a journal and special pen
grandma told me to write my sadness and I did and I still do
We would read what I had written over "a nice cup of tea"
and we would hug and let our tears fall- she encouraged me to write
"write it, write it for the world to read' - (I do grandma, I do !)
grandma is a reflection of who I am today as a writer, I honor her
and all my hurts I write ... though sad they are beautiful, so beautiful
When grandma died at ninety-four she could not speak anymore
her voice had been silenced by old age and she died quietly in her sleep
I was shattered yet insisted on speaking at her catholic funeral
writing seven pages about my grandma and what she meant to me
I stood at the front of the church trembling- her casket a distraction
But, when I went to speak a great wind took my papers away
they floated around the church like they had wings and I was unsure
but I heard a voice ("you don't need them") and I started talking
I talked and talked about my grandma, me, and her stories
when I finished, there was silence- except for the sound of weeping
In that moment ... I knew the power of words and of storytelling
grandma blessed me with her gift- the Lord blessed me with writing
when I think of gran's face it is with so much love, her smile beautiful
I will see my grandma Helena again ... she is waiting for me in Heaven
and when we meet- she will say, "lets have a nice cup of tea"