Long Pressed Poems
Long Pressed Poems. Below are the most popular long Pressed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pressed poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm a Pitbull Clown, so you know what I bring/
To the stage every time I perform with a string/
My guitar work is flawless, my bass drum is lawless/
I never second guess so my vocals are noisy/
I have animal instincts and a clown attitude/
My music is wicked, so they call it Devil food/
Longitude or latitude, I rock shows/
Magnitude a thousand, so I rock globes/
Put me up against the best and watch who the fans choose/
I'll gamble on myself, this is not a fan duel/
I do what I say, and say what I want/
It's a freedom is speech, so my foes I taunt/
I'm the chosen one, the best, it just comes as a gift/
These metal heads are pressed, so I give them a lift/
I work the graveyard shift to give people what the want/
Making The Death of My Soul on YouTube was easy/
Making You can't Punk My Metal on YouTube was cake/
And since I succeed, everybody mad at me/
A Pitbull Clown and I play both sides/
You don't wanna see neither, like the tale of Jekyll Hyde/
Jekyll Jekyll Hyde, Jekyll Hyde, Hyde Jekyll/
A Pitbull Clown and they label me a rebel/
Can't Punk This Game my music on YouTube rebellious/
Red alert, Red alert, Ring the alarm/
Armed with my vocals and I come to play/
All the politics, I stiff arm, so get out of the way/
They don't want me to shine, so I turn the night to day/
With this little light of mine and I'm on fire/
Burning up the air waves they want me to retire/
In a rocking chair with a pipe in my mouth/
But when my days are done, I'm hiring a scout/
To carry on my legacy, finish what I started/
And put these other dudes in check/
Competition only come around every so often/
So I won't stop till I put the game in a coffin/
I stay on the grind, I get better with time/
The longer I'm here, I get better like wine/
I keep working hard, because I want what's mine/
A Pitbull Clown, so I'm pushing the line/
From Little acorns
One morning the little acorn opened up his eyes,
He looked down and all around in astonishment and surprise.
Ho felt the comforting branches rock back and forth and sway
He really liked this movement it comforted him on this his birthday.
As he looked down to the ground
He saw a squirrel looking up.
But he felt safe and secure in his snug fitting acorn cup.
The months went on and he was happy swaying in the breeze
He even had an acorn sister to dance with in the leaves.
They talked together way up high in the great oak tree
They caught the sun and got a tan
They didn’t know the squirrel could see.
One day a great wind did blow
It ripped through all the trees,
It caught the acorn up there hiding, in between the leaves.
The little acorn was torn away from his sisters’ side,
The wind did take the acorn in its grasp, and threw him far and wide
The acorn battled with the wind throwing him all around
Then he came to settle, and found he was on the ground.
He laid there for a long time the leaves all covering him
He was beginning to get soggy, and his skin began to thin
The squirrel walked past him one day buteven he didn’t fancy him.
The acorn was bereft he was beginning to rot
The worms moved underneath him, the dirt built up on top.
One day when he was so sad when he felt a strange move
It was not the worms below him, and not the squirrel above
He had almost given in and admitted to defeat
But the strangest thing happened, he thought he was growing feet
His arms thrust up, his feet dug down; his head broke into the bright daylight
He was growing he could feel it, so he pressed on with all his might.
He grew and grew his branches spread, he was the tallest all around
Then he felt trembling in him and little acorns did abound
Now he was a mighty oak, he was happy as can be
He looked around and realised, he wasn’t just a tree
He was complete he noticed, new acorns hung from every limb
One day they would drop down to the ground, and grow up just like him.
Leaving work for home, my job stress still fizzled.
The long drive included bratty rain drizzle
and windshield blades needing my constant fiddle.
My stress spittled as rush hour drizzle-tripled.
Some driver's fingers waved from their hand’s middle
but I thought how my nights were far from simple
with dinner and other children committals.
I must stop and tend the food list I’d scribbled
so I gave my gearshift some tension wiggles.
Once at grocer’s I saw my food list whittled,
placed bags in car without a single wrinkle,
then backed out of parking space like a missile …
… so … my stressed ear’s received a crash transmittal
while in rear mirror my eye’s saw boots wiggle,
noted they were stilettos so not nimble
yet back and forth they wriggled on legs riddled
before boots, wrinkles and white hair sunk crippled.
Without quibble I gave cops a phone jiggle,
ran to my victim and knelt by her middle.
Her eyes were open but she seemed struck simple
so I sympathized and smiled with full dimples
while thinking this could become civil dribble
ending in a court where lawyers would quibble.
Yes, stress had pressed me inside guilty’s pickle.
I picture the room we spoke in
Surely, empty now as the night has crawled in
The floors having been stepped on so many times
By the foreign feet of humanity
I picture the carpet, clean and florescent,
The leaves designed to intertwine with the other
The wall, welcoming with neutral fall colors,
With glory-based pictures, big and small
I remember the glass too well,
My hands pressed upon one down the hall,
As unwanted tears began to fall,
Shortly after we had spoken
I remember the empty room in front of me,
Just before the hall began,
How I wish I could hide in the darkness,
Crawl on the comfortable couch,
And sleep away the sadness
I remember the happy faces all around,
The glasses of water, cooling us on the blazing day
And the used cups, pushed to the right side,
Often mistaken for clean…
No, but you…
You were never mistaken,
The moment you spoke to me, it was clear,
I would be thrown to the side,
Clean, yes, though not clean enough
Do you remember how refreshing it was?
To drink me in with your special surroundings,
With the jovial faces and the welcoming walls
Your eyes never knowing those empty halls
The halls in which I will remember forever…
Do you remember?
Setting a glass aside, adjusting your suit jacket,
Clearing your dry throat
Messing with your tie,
Breathing steadily,
And blinking…
Before you decided to set me down,
Discarding me like glass when drained…
The haggard white bearded man pressed the beans into my
palm
Firmly folding my hand over them with a Fatherly squeeze
And with a Wizards twinkle in his bloodshot eyes he quietly pleads
"Take my son, to a secluded place of your choosing and listen,
For only in solitude will the beans speak to you,
And once spoken your destiny shall be revealed."
I softly placed the beans into my leather sac, hanging from my neck
And began my trek,to a place only known to me
A placed Ive envisioned since I was three
I was half way down from the mountain top
Sitting in a small cleft within solid rock, Anticipation,
Fear, consumed my thoughts, and there I waited days
And the beans spoke not.
My mental state decayed, my body frame lean
Wasting away for a bunch of beans.
" A lie, " I screamed, " oh what a fool I be,
Believing my destiny within these beans.'
I'm to weak to descend now, my body so frail
I eat the beans as sustenance so I will not fail
It seems days I sleep, I know not how long
I awake in a valley so far from home
Streets are paved in gold, there's fruit on every tree
People pass me by , They all are bowing to me
So confused from my state, perhaps still I dream
Then a maiden takes my hand,
She says, " Come my King"
I'm lead to a castle, stretching to the stars
And inside there's a throne with and emerald sheen
A throng of thousands shout , "Hail to the King",
They place a crown on my head ,
They dance and sing.
The maiden sits next to me, crowned as my Queen,
And this my destiny, from a bunch of beans
Do you ever just feel like it’s too much pressure
Like you're a tea kettle screaming, but everybody keeps their don’t care ear plugs in and can't see vision lens on
So no one can hear you suffocating or see you dry drowning.
They are blindly waiting for the next bit of pressured tea
Superman isn’t coming to save you. Trust
I’ve been screaming, and he still hasn’t found me
Something tells me he has no space for me under his cape of success
Life has made a choice, and it’s challenged you greatly
No one can stop it, just the end
Even then that’s a maybe
We actually don’t know if that’s just another beginning of a new rat race
We have yet to see or begin to comprehend
I am losing my voice from screaming helplessly
Tones that have fallen upon deaf ears who also can’t see
Would someone please give me a breath to breathe
Living is like a cigarette just sucking the energy of life out of me.
Depletion of patience, in exchange for cancerous thoughts
Scared to inhale, afraid more damage it will cost
Pressure. Pop
You thought I did it just, pressed the red button
You actually thought I'd hit it?
Are you kidding? Have you not learned yet
Under constraint, beauty is produced
So the more it's compressed
The brighter the rays will shine through
Pressure is uncomfortable for a duration of time
Withstanding the forces of life will produce
Unbreakable human diamonds
Stronger every time
"Dead leaves lay still, even the last flower is withered: yet there is a beauty in decayed imperfection." Taken from a quote by _Constance La France
On an orbital rotation around our planet every day, nothing stays the same. We change our surroundings change, our thoughts change, constantly evolving into what we are and what we will be tomorrow.
Everything changes. Some things grow bigger or older, some are renewed, restored or replaced, some break or decay. Nothing stays exactly the same. Therefore we are never finished changing. As it was intended, or broken, still nothing is perfect forever. Regrettably Rolls Royce rust.
Aren’t you ashamed of me?”, said the pot with the crack.
“Every day you carry me, yet I only bring half the water back.”
The old woman replied. ”Didn’t you notice I carry you on the same side?
You do a great job and I always carry you with much pride.
You see every day, as I walk back you water each flower.
All these beautiful flowers are because of you."
Knowing a fault and making use of it, not alienating the item because of its fault but accentuating it, creates joy.
"When you were perfect, I loved you when you were not, I loved you more.”
The old woman kept the withered pressed bouquet, it’s in a box displayed on the shelf. From their wedding day, glorious red roses, now in decay. She smiles as she remembers its beauty and that of herself.
The flowers she kept, emphasizing their imperfections caused by age, give her joy.
She loved them when they were perfect, their beauty actually means more to her now that they are not perfect, as their remnants have lasted all these years.
All things must be looked upon as spiritually one and of use either aesthetically or practically, (or able to be recycled).
a single heart
thick as wax
pressed into the earth’s embrace
it does not wither
does not break
only waits in silence--patient, watching
its vines creep slow
twisting tight
coiling round the throat of time
whisper soft
it calls their names
a voice like wind through hollow bone
come and see
come rest your hands
upon the leaves still warm with breath
they lean in close
they never know
until the roots have found their skin
wrists entwined
by tendriled veins
soft as lovers’ fingertips
no cries escape
no struggle holds
it drinks them deep--it lets them go
but still they bloom
from blood-wet soil
a heartbeat pulsing in the stem
one by one
it claims them all
until the plant becomes the man
his lips are leaves
his eyes are dark
his hands are reaching from the vine
he whispers now
with every breeze
and lures the next one home again
They married me in the season of rain.
The whole village smelled of river rot
and wet stone.
Water lapped at the chapel steps
as though the lake herself
had come to witness the ceremony.
No one spoke above a whisper there.
Not the women knotting my veil
with cold, trembling fingers.
Not the priest with mildew staining his cuffs.
Not even my groom,
whose eyes carried the stillness
of something half-drowned.
The village was sinking.
Slowly.
The people said that every year the water climbed higher—
swallowing fields,
then gardens,
then the lower rooms of houses
where the furniture floated in place,
Frozen in time.
The church bells had drowned three winters before.
Still, some nights,
the villagers claimed they heard them ringing
deep beneath the water,
soft and warped as funeral hymns.
I should have fled then,
when I first learned of what the silence meant here.
There were boats upriver,
kept hidden by women who never spoke of them aloud.
Leaving was never spoken of directly—
only implied, like it was some sort of sin.
Instead, I let them crown me in pearls.
The women threaded them into my hair
like tiny moons,
their faces pale with pity
and something beneath it—fear disguised as something like tradition.
One of them pressed a shell into my palm before the ceremony.
She looked at me with a certainty I had not seen in anyone
since the month I arrived in this village—
as if she already knew exactly what I would become.
“For the crossing,” she whispered.
I thought I must have misunderstood her, somehow.
I understand now that I did not.
With shining eyes, the prettiest
advances leading all the rest.
She skips with glee beneath blue skies,
the prettiest with shining eyes.
The second, with a warming smile,
comes dressed in lace, and all the while
she lithely romps beneath the sun
with warming smile, the second one.
And woebegone, the daughter third,
walks, scowling, speaking not a word.
She trudges slowly on and on -
the daughter third and woebegone.
Now comes along a steadfast son
whose sauntering seems never done.
He perseveres though winds be strong.
A steadfast son now comes along.
The second boy along the trail
has charity, which does not fail.
He renders aid and brings sweet joy
along the trail, the second boy.
Another son, now onward pressed,
endures although fatigued and stressed.
He's labored much and cannot run,
now onward pressed, another son.
At course's end, a daughter fair
who rests - lets down her golden hair.
Most cheerful, tender, gracious friend,
the daughter at the course's end.
Inspired by the nursery rhyme "Monday's Child"