Long Rawest Poems
Long Rawest Poems. Below are the most popular long Rawest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rawest poems by poem length and keyword.
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
I’m not a poet
I’m not an author
I’m simply
A writer
This is my outlet
My way of venting
I write about what’s on my mind
What I’m feeling
I write the things I want to say
But don’t for one reason or another
Because
I’m a writer
The person you see everyday
The face you see
It’s a mask
Just another character of my imagination
It’s what is needed to maneuver through my day
In an attempt to realize my dream
I’m a writer
In my writings I get to be myself
Expressing myself in a way that I believe gives you a true and honest piece of me
In the rawest form possible
While at the same time
Recognizing that it doesn’t matter that I think I have something worth being heard
But that you think I have something worth hearing
All because
I’m a writer
My pen and my paper are my only true friends
Never faltering
Never judgmental
Never disappointing
They are there from the first word to the last
They support my thoughts and ideas
Even the bad ones
And they are always within reach
Waiting when I have something to say
Because they too know
I’m a writer
I read everything I get my hands on
Soaking up every iota of information it contains
From the random trivia to abstract literary technique
Absorbing it and allowing it to manifest itself through my words
Hoping that it is making me better at my craft
Because
I’m a writer
I put my heart and soul into my work
Adding a little piece of me in every line I write
Opening myself up to your criticisms and critiques
Of my thoughts
Of my ideas
Of me
And when the rejections hurt
I wear yet another mask
The one with the big smile
I turn to my friends; the pen and paper
And I write
Because it’s what I’m supposed to do
Because
I’m a writer
Oh my dear friend, its time to vent it out. Forget about the control, forget about the petrol , burn yourself up in the luminosity of your novelty. Let your hands freewheel, let them dance on the tunes of your vehemence. Clear your throats and recite that unheard and unsung poem you once wrote in a closet for the artistic satisfaction.
Can’t you see the world in complete disarray, can’t you see the Beauty of Women been brutalized and vandalized. A lot of contemplation goes into penning down verses on Women’s mysticity, but those verses are like dead ducks in a plush milieu. Place them among your brothers, among the crowds, in the Flames of atrocities and believe in the substance. They have the power to rise and conquer. They have the depth of your Conviction.
Crowd is storming and buzzing but disoriented. Gather it with your fervent Voice. If you believe you are pious, share your last breath with them. If they don’t have a Face, you give them one. If they want to maul each other down, you calm their anxiety. Get over your block, come out of your closet. Leave the rodents and mice in there nutshell milieu, let them dodge ahead. You forge ahead.
If you know ‘The Vedas’, ‘The Upanishads’, ‘The Bible’, ‘The Quran’, then share them amongst the Juveniles. Embed them with ideals, enrich them with Values.That’s what Brotherhood is all about. Don’t walk gingerly no more. Don’t join that long grey line of Manhood but make your way into the Crowd.
The Stage is set. It was always there and will always be there. It was there for Mahatma Gandhi, it was there for Martin Luther King. They were the ‘Stand Up’ Guys. Forget about maneuvering your train of Thoughts. Spill out your rawest of emotions with rawest of expressions along with Tears of hope, a hope of a better future. A hope of churning out another ‘Stand Up’ Guy.
Form:
There is this girl I love…hmph!!
I have secrets she doesn’t know…
They are that…I cry many nights
Like tonight…about us and our relationships
Tears of joy and tears of sorrow
Crying and praying that we could last to tomorrow
Feeling as if
Everything has to be perfect
Because she is worth it…
I’ve been planning our future
For many years
Me losing her is my greatest fear
I am always grateful
That I have her
Though I am steadily tempted
Lessons from past mistakes
Keeps me lifted
Keeps me strong
Whooo!!!…I love this Girl man!!!!
She keeps me on my toes
She keeps me on my P’s and Q’s
She keeps me sharp
It’s been 7 years
We are now an official couple
Due to the arguing, discussions
The yelling the fussing
The kissing the touching
Not to mention the…fuh…NOTHING!!!!!
But she makes me happy
Maybe not her actions
But the simple thought of her
Keeps me happy…
I just bought her 2 valentine cards
That may resemble my vows
I just hope that my point gets across
Somehow,
She’s my homey, my friend
I hope to see her this weekend
She knows me well…not like a book
But no one knows me…and she’s the closest,
This chick
Is always the center of my focus.
She’s my rib
God made her for me.
This isn’t a poem…even though it rhymes
These are feelings
Expressed in the rawest since possible
My love + her love = our love
Is unstoppable.
SO we ain’t going nowhere
I love her and she loves me
If it’s one thing that I believe
Is that she loves me…why? I don’t know.
There’s no room to fail
But plenty room to grow
So will we ever stop loving each other?
I don’t know…
…But I doubt it!!!
Form:
Too Much to Handle**
These days, I find myself captivated by TikTok, spending hours scrolling through its endless stream of content, even more than I indulge in writing my poetry. Ouch! It feels like a betrayal to my creative spirit. My body is not merely flesh ready to be consumed; it’s a sacred vessel, a fortress to protect. Each harsh word affects me deeply. My body is my temple, a sweet Floribbean honeydew, yet tonight, my room feels suffocatingly crowded.
Thoughts of past relationships swirl around me like unwanted guests—those side thoughts, the ghosts of exes, and looming large, there you are… John Crow, an unwelcome reminder of what once was. I remind myself that my poems serve as messages, heartfelt whispers from me to myself. This evening, I’m finding calm that rivals even the most tranquil sea. The Pacific Ocean may be fierce and tumultuous, but tonight, my inner peace feels stronger.
Writing about my pain extracts the rawest emotions, breathing life into my work. It’s interesting how deep suffering can propel one into a profound journey of self-discovery. In love, though, I often lose sight of my true self, questioning, who am I really beneath the layers of affection?
I feel like I flick between different versions of myself, switching from a past that was less than inviting, wrapped in my own illusions. I once believed you were the king of my castle, my protector in a world of chaos.
Tomorrow, I plan to rise with clarity, sober from the wine that never touched my lips tonight, and then, I hope to navigate the adult decisions that await me with newfound wisdom.
Whirling through torpedoes of sound,
spinning and tailing its way like Raphael to earth,
shoots some uninstantaneous ether:
the impermeable myelin of true experience.
The soul—the richest treasure chest ever found;
creating, disseminating, revealing, glimmering, alluring.
Rawest sense material pinging in gold-tipped purls of rose-furls:
stroking the ears as gently as a brook,
yet roaring with the might of an ocean-river undammed,
with strength enough to loose the captives.
Dance—that vital union of impulse and excursus,
Funnelling to earth to free the heart with unspeakable words.
Beauty will save the world, said a great Russian writer:
But how does that matter unless it first save our souls?
Wending, winking, welding walls of splendor; almighty proportions,
austere glory of Euclidean quintessence,
draining, distilling, disgorging life's elixir into a jet-black pearl
suspended in honey-dew drops:
Then the peak of the ascent and the plummet back to the globe of the touched;
yet refusing to leave us untouched.
Surely there is more to what there is than whatever we wish it to be,
Yet the continuum plunges on in measured oar-strokes,
to reach in all haste that prized and glistering and all-consuming whole;
Unfilched fire of sparks and symmetries to wound the soul with terror
Of the known but not realized:
After all that, we arrive at the beginning,
and let our sails be billowed with burnished breezes.
Vaporized by the mere cruelty of life,
the smoky intoxication of reality puzzles my entire soul.
As pieces of my puzzle break off into the abyss of time
and disappear for all eternity.
Some things they are not forever
just not meant to be.
As all the tragedies of me
dissolve into particles of aching nausea.
When the truth is swell and the wounds are inflated.
I witness the gash of torment resting on my soul.
A suctioning tube, it was, etching rain into my already cold, cold season.
To mourn would last for all of time.
as shards of glass fall into my tortured eyes.
Until I wish to no longer see.
The pain of my pupils now soaking the salt of my unforgiving tears,
melting into time's own concoction of relentless brutality.
Until I no longer know where i reside.
Living in this bubble of utter repetition.
To call it a Hell would be only redundancy in it's rawest state.
Not really caring to bother,
but neither being permitted to be late
I'm surrendering ownership of my life.
Cooking away my creativity, they try to sell their plastic grins
Hoping that society will merely turn it's two faced head.
Selling themselves out, and expecting me to do the same.
Selling out to a world that will buy stars that are not for sale.
And if you're caught smoking trees, then you'd better have bail.
We're in their twilight now.
But who's to say "their" right?
Form:
How do I tell you a story
of my broken wings’ glory,
of feathers that still learnt to hold me?
On this solid ground,
survival land
of swords and shields.
How do I reach your treasure,
through heart, without taking your measure,
without assuming your answers?
Free from roles and labelling,
empowering and enabling
your soul to come through.
How do I tell you a story,
embarrassing deeds’ inventory
that I’ve never been proud of?
Share my secrets and sins,
all my daemons’ wins
so you know me imperfect as I am.
I want to know how it feels
without those layers and peels
to be you at the rawest form.
Will you let me in
to the bones of your Being,
where your spirit is waiting to glow?
I have a space in my heart
for you too, to take its part.
I just need you to witness in silence
my pain of toxic shame,
flowing through my veins,
thinking “feelings are for the weakest”.
And when I trip over your painful comments
in those awkward moments,
I’ll still give you a hand when you need me.
Without rescuing and saving,
and your strength depriving
so you can walk alone if you need to.
But we can walk next to each other,
learn to accept one another,
and to respect different pathways to freedom.
So the wings can spread and fly to the highest sky,
And in the full moon, in my comfort zone,
I don’t need to howl alone, not any more!
'Tis well-known that military blokes speak a lingo of their own,
But it has served them well over the years, it has been shown!
To a General or a Private, such jargon is totally sensible,
But to ordinary citizens, 'tis utterly incomprehensible!
"Yard birds" know all about "policing the area" and "kitchen police."
A seasoned "grunt" knows what it means to "clean his piece."
The "head" is a sanctuary for musing to a sailor or marine,
But to an airman or soldier, 'tis better known as the "latrine."
When on the firing line the Sergeant yells, "Fire at will!"
Guys aim not to kill Will but to improve their shooting skill!
When a Corporal invites his squad to a "GI Party" on Friday night,
There'll be no beer but you'll scrub the floor and do it right!
From the dreaded "Reveille" to "Retreat" (when troops must salute),
Bugle calls herald tidings quickly learned by even the rawest recruit!
Everyone scans the "Daily Bulletin" for the latest "scuttlebutt."
On parade, troopers snicker watching "second louies" strut!
Essential to national defense, the brass concoct acronyms galore,
And there are geniuses in the Pentagon always begetting more,
Word forms from (A)WACS to (Z)ULU and betwixt ad infinitum!
Ah! Those handy acronyms! How could we fight a war without 'em!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
If asked..but no one ever will
What I miss most
I am torn
Is it the champagne of your skin? The silken purity
Or your Love in its rawest most vulnerable desperate clinging clutching beauty
Or is it the avacadoness of your voice?
Your rolling...Har
you spoke my name...over and over
But perhaps it is your avid wandering searching ever learning mind? Did you say HTML...or was it Adobe...or a theoretical mathematical three dimensional formulation of angles and curves...bacon strips or drops theory
Did I love you?
Dropped to knees
Fallen to floor
Pulled over as not to hurt others with my car
You ask for an answer that the entire universe knows all too too well
But somehow...you missed the memo
No one sends memos anymore
Its all group text
and conference calls..and video chattings
Will there be remnant markings in the geologic strata that show the remnants of cell phones and laptops
like Dinasuar bones today...will they say ...they lived in the
Facebookian era...or the twiterian...or instagramian...or the lostmindian
Just saying...we have all gone completely mad and we are soon to be dust from dust...bone from bone
and fast worthy of deep reflective and historical folly
study