Long Rawness Poems
Long Rawness Poems. Below are the most popular long Rawness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rawness poems by poem length and keyword.
TEARS OF THE DRAGON
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shargenth the dragon, once a figure of dread, is now guardian of our village, a mystical place where the mountains greet the sky. She has a gentle way about her, a lumbering patience and grace. In the summer, she sits on rocks languishing in the sun’s warmth, dozing for hours. In winter she hibernates, having fed on elk in the autumn months. Villagers always know when spring arrives, for she awakens by calling in the hills, her deep voice, beautiful in its rawness, echoing from the rocks. Shargenth is our protector, often shedding tears for us—her flowing tears joining the river and lake below.
&&&&&&&&
At twilight Shargenth stirs, slowly unfurling her wings.
I ascend the mountain and stand before her,
the keeper of truths,
her eyes molten pools of understanding.
In the quiet of the moon’s embrace,
Shargenth’s eyes suddenly darken
reflecting the fears I clutch.
She weeps—not tears of empathy and sorrow,
but a cleansing rain,
each drop a cathartic release.
Sargenth tremors, bowing her great head.
From her molten eyes,
more tears form, cascading like rain,
each drop a regret,
a moment I thought too heavy to bear.
Tears pool at my feet, crystalline and shimmering,
reflecting the ghosts of choice I made,
paths not taken, and
the weight of what could have been.
I watch as Shargenth’s tears evaporate into the earth,
the soil drinking deep,
absorbing the essence of my burdens.
Sargenth lifts her gaze,
a knowing look, as if to say,
"Let go, dear one,
for even the fiercest of us
must shed our weight,
must live with
with the lightness of being."
The air shifts,
a breeze whispering through the trees.
The last of my worries slips away,
dissolved in the tears of a creature
that understands
the beauty in the shedding
and the strength of letting go.
Killick Poetry Contest // Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Contest Judged: 9/5/2025 12:25:00 PM
( 7th Place )
Written: August 26, 2025
I never chose the burden
but life pressed stone and rope into my hands.
I lowered it into the unsettled sea,
and waited for balance to return.
The sea murmurs of leaving,
of slipping past every safe haven,
yet I stay, steady on hidden weight
gripped by the understated endurance.
Some may laugh at its rawness,
a patchwork anchor of scraps and stone
but I trust its unshaken clutch.
It does not shine,
it does not speak
yet it keeps me from dissolving.
The killick teaches me this:
strength is not perfection...
it is simply staying when all else pulls away.
Where hills lay barren, and bedrock’s stripped bare
let me take you away to county Clare
Huge cliffs climb sheer, dwarfing waves underneath
atop the Burren my heart skips a beat
With nothing to see, apart from the view
all makes perfect sense, rain comes right on cue
And whatever I feel, it’s in the air
desolation yes, but without a care
Where fields seed pebbles, and pastures reap stones
through Clare’s vast rawness, I trek on my own
A whitewashed lighthouse, beckons away
scouring heavy seas, beneath clouds of grey
Gulls are crying, as they happily do
rising and falling, going nowhere too
Still makes me wonder, where I’d rather be
than here by Clare’s dolmens in reverie
Later I take in, what nature left out
my pipe, tobacco, and bottle of stout
Hms
I had few dates (5) before leaving for college.
- thanks again covid -
so my experience was practically irrelevant.
When it came to love I knew nothing.
I was an unseasoned chicken.
In an argument, I had no social currency,
no litany of my love’s starry predecessors to hype.
In a crunch, I can’t always articulate feelings I’m struggling with -
we’re not all song writers or poets.
What I have is my own brand of cringe rawness -
but breakthrough moments require honesty - don’t they?
Ok, here it is:
You’re not a single song.
You’re a playlist, a no-skip album
that needs playing at max volume.
Your passions, talents and emotions
make the unmistakable soundtrack of you.
And I love it.
.
.
Songs for this:
Baby Steps by Olivia Dean
sunshine! by Hangsung
Genius (feat. Gush) by C2C
There was a day when punk rock was my thing
the rawness and energy of the music
really stirred up within ready to rebel
giving your all the focus that makes you kick
Then every Wednesday night on the local radio
'street sounds' was the name of the game
which played all that was the best of punk
the DJ encouraged writing about our lighted frame
Enjoying our music best on a live set
watching concerts was the real thing
at my local Apollo, I booked my seat
seeing and hearing made the arena ring
These days music was on tape
mail order got you a great deal
free t-shirt and postage were so great
plus the great music, what a steal!
These are great memories to remember
those days really made you rock
still can hear these punk sounds
so fresh and street-wise, so don't mock!
(Remembering life in the mid to late 70s and what made life tick musically, hard to believe that now I'm a classical fan but indeed life changes in its many circles.)
Ask me how I'm doing now and I'm just maintaining, just to maintain it
Its raw deep and seeded, an explanation doesn't really justify the details
I knew i was stronger than most when i consoled my own heart
As i silently watched you give away everything that i ever deserved
Its been a few more years past now and it still hurts
I feel jaded, I held on for so long, rewriting the wrongs
Somedays it just feels like ripping the stitches out of wounds over and over
I don't even know anymore how to approach it, I just want closure
But it hurts me to have to hurt you
And then when you do hurt, I hurt again too, pain times two
So, I let my heartbreak for your heart, so your heart don't have to just to sustain you
There is a rawness and discord intertwined in that type of pain
So, I bare the burden of your heartache just to protect you
I can't let the anguish and atrocities subdue and consume you
So I give every allegiance and conviction that I have in me, to you
So that I can endow you.
it hurt so much that she prised out the molar in despair
with a corner post missing pain oozed from wounded flesh
one cavity exchanged for another but rawness lay bare
she tried painkillers and sedatives then settled for hash
anguish hampered her feelings and she tore at her heart
until emotional turmoil pulsated in oblivion and voids
took a few more puffs from the reefer to make a start
to clean up her act but failed and reached out for opioids
dazed in a haze it appeared to work well for a short while
she pickaxed her mind and attempted to extract the root
of disorientation sorrow and evil but her mind remained vile
confused and drugged the remedy’s effects stayed rather moot
alcohol uppers and downers magic mushrooms and cocaine
followed her on the devastating road to full blown compulsion
whatever she tried she spread bedlam and became more insane
threw the drugs in the loo and looked back in fearful repulsion
21st September 2020
Wounds, like windows,
when opened,
let in light and the breath of something new.
But it takes courage
to unlatch what pain has sealed shut.
We board them up,
plaster the cracks,
pretend the draft isn't there—
but silence has a smell,
and you can only hold your breath for so long.
Sometimes, healing sounds like wind
whistling through what broke—
a quiet reminder
that damage doesn’t mean done,
that ruin is not the same as ending.
Air moves different through a wound,
cool against what once burned.
Dust shifts in forgotten corners.
And the light—
not blinding, but patient—
lingers,
touching the rawness
without demanding repair.
Let it.
Let the ache speak.
Let the light crawl across your ribs
and settle into the hollows
you tried so hard to erase.
Wounds, like windows,
don’t have to be beautiful
to be open.
They only have to let something in.
Flawed Perfection
In the dark corners of her smile,
I find a fire that cuts through miles,
Of shattered dreams and whispered pain,
Where only truth can break the chain.
Her imperfections, they sing to me,
A perfect flaw, a mystery,
In every scar, a deeper grace,
Her beauty lies in this embrace.
I long to touch the wounds she hides,
To heal her heart, to stand beside,
But passion burns, and love does sting,
In tender love, we break, we sing.
Her love, a storm that shakes my soul,
In her, I lose, but still feel whole,
For in the ache, the sharpest knife,
I find the pulse that calls me life.
And though the pain may break my skin,
Her love, her truth, I’ll never win,
But lose myself and find her there,
In perfect flaws, beyond compare.
Lev
---------------
*Note*
This poem explores the intense passion and inevitable pain that comes with love, especially when embracing someone’s imperfections as the very things that make them uniquely perfect.
Life is a journey of embracing both the light and the shadow. In the quiet moments, we find truth, and in the pain, we discover depth. Never shy away from the imperfections, for they are what make us real, what make us human. Love with all your heart, and let it guide you to places beyond what you ever thought possible.
Love isn’t just the moments of bliss; it’s the vulnerability, the imperfections, and the growth we share. It’s finding beauty in the flaws and strength in the weakness. True love is accepting each other fully, without pretense, letting the rawness of our hearts speak. Love is both the passion and the pain, the peace and the storm, and it's all worth it, because it's real.
He assembled in darkness the corroded horn
by familiarity and sense of touch.
Then cast as thunder into the empty night
long tones void of musical melody.
Sustained tones, fierce and woeful
in succession paraded the street.
Each note precisely chosen, unfurled
and carried aloft in chilly air.
The flickering street lamp understood
as long shadows on a cobbled walk
slow danced in the warming glow.
But the music was not for them tonight.
The musician’s voice transformed
and angry staccato flares broke.
Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree!
He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick.
Snapping of limbs and morality
but the tree was just a thug anyway.
Indignant “Quiet downs!”
rained from high-rise windows
mingling in the blood of the fallen;
and tears…so few tears.
Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight.
Yet they could not escape the song,
that guileless voice in the darkness,
which once again transformed.
Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass
amplifying every tremble of the lip.
Pitiful notes, harsh on either end
and broken by uneven vibrato,
yet piercing in their rawness,
turned away the wrathful storm.
Tremulous begging it seemed,
accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn,
which lulled to sleep the very stars above.
The moon halted to listen as well,
before tucking itself in, cathartic,
as the pitiful busker concluded his song
of remorse for un-lived dreams
and unspoken things
The music wasn't for them tonight.
10/18/15