Long Regurgitating Poems
Long Regurgitating Poems. Below are the most popular long Regurgitating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regurgitating poems by poem length and keyword.
She is a deep feet
She has beaten to drown many she feeds
Her face is a black green skin
she waves her tail large the size of her teeth
Her hungry is a mystery. kill
Her fangs cold like an adder's venom sting
She is a regurgitating beast
chews her cods slowly
raises her prey up down up again and down then up
the third time and finally
swallows after some days in her deep
she vomit it prey stiff, stilled,
many forgotten souls lie beneath her. deep
The villagers chant songs and wail. deep
Like a hawk she dives prickly
On its prey at a glance sweeps
Like cyclone and steals
At the brink
of her teeth
Another villager
she
drinks
who gone to be with the river. Last man of his clan, last fishermen of his age mate, only surviving son of late chief only to be seen again days on top of her black green skin, stilled eyes pop out white .River Ethiope is a beast She never get filled
7/5/2020
Where the Grass Don't Grow
The historical record bared to see
In worn-torn pages, undecipherable.
And I’m to believe that this sum total
Will explain everything you say to me.
Mixed with phlegm spewed from the esophagus,
Spitting in my face like a rhinoceros,
That means nothing more than that goat in the field,
Whose skull is thicker than the ape’s you entail.
Beat your gums and wave your arms frequent
And act the fool on steroids to impress the simple;
Regurgitating words and acting stupid,
Like an awoken irritant that won’t exit.
Where the grass doesn’t grow, but the “you know” will.
And the rooster struts, and the hens cluck,
And the dogs bark, and the pigs are smart,
And the sun shines on my behind, in kind.
Butterflies don’t die,
instead they become Frankenstein
electric shocked and back to life;
Hot and cold heart,
hopelessly frozen yet fiercely beating;
Stomach just short of regurgitating,
butterflies are alive;
So blue you want them to decay
instead they flutter endlessly;
Electric shocked and back to life,
possessing traits of a zombie;
Butterflies won’t die;
There is no cocoon to hide in,
you’re stuck within your own skin,
and it just crawls;
Like a butterfly landing delicately
on your wrist;
Now you’re caught,
electric shocked and back to life;
Butterflies never die
instead becoming ink
immortalizing bloody tears;
Forever weeping
within a fly poetic tattoo.
It was a righteous hit and the silky smooth euphoric familiar feeling was racing through her veins to her encephalon.
It was an energetic stimulation to her central nervous system.
Her whole body fell back onto the foul-smelling and heavily stained mattress.
Her mind slumped into oblivion.
Her eyes rolled to the back of her head.
The last thing she remembers seeing was a vivid shadow.
A shadow of a housefly on the ceiling.
It appeared to be eating something.
Through a purple haze, she wonders about the filthy creature.
In nonsensical supposition, she could feel the beastly fly attack.
Scissoring meticulously against the flesh of her forehead.
Scissoring against the hard connective tissue of her skull.
Systematically and relentlessly thrusting its cutting blades.
Regurgitating its vile acid fluid onto the soft tissue of her cerebrum.
Imaginable pain and reverberation of the piercing sound were consistent.
And then, the morning light faded.
She saw luminous colors of red, yellow, and different shades of blue, like cyan and turquoise.
She felt her body floating around in a large kaleidoscope.
copyright 2016 Torsional Storm
In times of darkness,
When time is like raging seas,
my mum Is the lighthouse,
illuminating the skies,
guiding me to the shore.
There is an art to motherhood.
A paradise on earth,
with blessings of a priceless prayer.
Anyone can give birth,
but not everyone can be a mother,
I have written so many March musings,
simmering scribbles with alliterative metaphors,
but my mamma is the poem of my soul.
When the Devil would trick with his wicked games,
her angelic voice would bring clarity.
Reminding me that twisted thoughts will
only lead to a maze of uncertainty.
Each time death knocked at my door,
Her empathic energy would ease my pain.
Always told me if I didn't appreciate inner beauty;
the red of a rose would kill my soul.
How I'll be forever collecting thorns,
so I planted an abundance of flowers,
in kaleidoscopic colours, ensuring
Spring smells were soothing.
I remember when burdens became too heavy,
swift changes of life brought only sorrow,
grey clouds followed my every move
with black skies full of soulless stars.
There was a spring with deadly roses,
and countless colourless flowers.
I wondered if my heart would bloom this spring.
you were the perfect remedy,
like the mercy of rain upon petals,
who gave warmth after a cold night.
Words lost in a hustle and bustle of silence,
bloomed like lilacs and daffodils,
kissed by the sweetness of morning dew,
as colourful clouds in clementine hues,
greeted the sun in sapphire skies.
I always have regurgitating regrets,
when being strong, I never express enough,
how no woman alive could ever take your place.
In a world where love can be a hallucination,
people lose their affection,
let them change,
but you always stay the same.
Writer's block is a well known enemy
To creative minds worldwide
It makes the mind a white canvas
But refuses any efforts to paint
It may drive a person mad
Staring at the empty page
When words refuse to be written
But there is something
Assuredly worse than writer's block
And that very thing is simply
Having nothing to say
And after nearly two decades
Of poem after poem
One truly starts to wonder
If one is merely regurgitating
Things said previously
For emotions are omnipresent
And also quite repetitive
And I fear I have nothing left to say
I stare at poem after poem
Rejecting what my mind has offered
Because I've said it all before
And that truly is
Worse than writer's block
She never gave up that recipe, the
boys' favorite iced tea, made
smooth and sweet. Women
sit in the kitchen going over
coupons and recipes, regurgitating
the latest gossip heard in the
pew behind at this morning's
service. men sit on the porch
tucking chaw in their
lip pocket, spitting in a bucket
on the railing. Waiting for the
race to start, supper to be
served, the clouds to pass so
lawn can be mowed. Another
Sunday without Mama. The
iced tea is off, just enough
for the boys to notice, the
women to know they missed
again. If only she'd learned
to write, we'd have the recipe.
After dinner
Stomach claiming to be a winner
There is an ending that is sweet
A course defined as the meal’s treat
Small surprise filled with candy
Sometimes sneaking in a little brandy
Lighting a torch
Baked Alaskan commanded to go forth
Bringing the whipping cream
Finishing off an evening that was a dream
Started with a small plate
Appetizers to nibble on as the diner’s wait
Then comes the main event
Hunger gone and went
It is the main dish
Steak or seafood the customer’s wish
When passing this elegant time
Coupling it with the right wine
Whispering they converse
Not thinking about their money in the purse
Since it is a wonderful delight
Award winning in every bite
Leaving the table
If physically able
People at peace
Soothing the bitter in any beast
Next opportunity the dessert tray arrives
Give it a try
It is the final serving
To a special moment well deserving
No worries about the check and balance
Getting home may take some talent
When looking to the ceiling
Having that regurgitating feeling
Savoring it was pleasant
For once not being a peasant
Enjoying this culinary present
Where knives and forks
Do the work
Leaving celebration to pop the cork
FROM ME TO YOU: APROPOS OF WISDOM, GUIDANCE, AND LEARNING
(A Teacher’s Reflections For And In A Labor Of Love)
Remember, “To not know is bad.”
“To not wish to know is worse:-”
Reading involves more than being able to pronounce words.
You must also know the meaning of each word encountered:-
It’s not about rushing to be first to complete the test.
It’s about taking your time to get the majority of right answers.
Hey, homework is equivalent to body and mind practice
in sports:-
Your mind is the home where you energize to become great
in academic challenges:-
Just because AI “solves” a problem for you, doesn’t mean
it’s solution is correct:-
Remember, AI only does what it is given by NI to do what you
input it to do:-
Remember, praying is not merely quick regurgitating
of remembered words;
Rather, praying is sacredly speaking with God, Saints,
and The Holy Spirit:-
Stop regurgitating, “I’m sorry”! Be in awareness!
“Don't be sorry; be aware.”
Hey, for me, teaching is a labor of love:-
Make learning likewise, for you:-
Be in onderful oneness onement:-
Peace and Love:-
Dem Tiff Our Pikin
Child Trafficking
Her echoing screams
pierced the night
unreeling an impending woe
rousing every slumbering soul
prompting a sudden madness
The other sits then strains
looking out with earnest yearnings
scarcely seeing the distance
streaming out the tears
remembering many sorrows
as she recounts her story
This one grows weary
as her mind wanders off
overly flustered
by the seemly misty dust
stirred by roaming feet
scantily clothed
barely holding on
bemused by this troubling reality
grasping weakly
to her unbroken will
The other held on to fate
even as she alter her faith
squatting with a furrowed face
staring blankly at the beaming sun
regurgitating their last words
visualizing her lost world