Long Relatable Poems
Long Relatable Poems. Below are the most popular long Relatable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relatable poems by poem length and keyword.
I was watching my childhood
When I saw them playing
On a ground of new-felt joy
No restrictions and they were enjoying
Saw what I was a vollyball
Used as a basket one
They were enjoying the moment
And that was enough fun
I saw a group playing volley
They didn't know the rules
Neither they had the skills for it
And they didn't care less
Another group played, on the same ground
It was a handball, used differently
It was a game of catch
And they were so happy
One ball came to me
It missed my face though
Thought I could return it
Then remembered the past of mine
I ain't good at the sport myself
But surely more capable then them
Thought I could teach them some
Then remembered, my own childhood
I was like them, they're better though
Didn't know how to play, but wanted to
Didn't had the stamina, yet enjoyed the game
Didn't had any restrictions, never wanted one as well
Never wanted one to interfere
In the game I played with my friends
Never wanted one to lecture
In the game where fun never ends
I know they'll learn soon enough
And will cherish the memories as I do
Should I teach them today the game
And they'll never have the mistakes to do
Won't they enjoy the stupid actions
Never will experience those self made rules
They'll lose their childhood freedom
Which was beyond, those formal rules
Let them enjoy the way they do
I had my childhood, so they do
Let them create some memories too
Which they'll cherish, by seeing what I saw through
Anxiety eats me alive
Right down to the core
Where my soul and mind meet
It’s always at war
It’s rotten, decaying
Losing worth like a dime
Ten cents to a nickel
A penny, with time
The gut wrenching feeling
Won’t go away
For better or for worse
Push though day by day,
But how can I live
With this knife in my chest
It’s hard to breathe
And leaves me restless
When will it get better?
Medication will do
Let’s drug you up
Silence your mind too
A walking zombie
No feeling or care
Just a lifeless body
With hurt and despair
Anxiety eats me alive
Right down to the core
Rotten like an apple
It’s hard to ignore.
What you're holding in your hands
Is a poem within a poem
Both far enough apart
But close enough to get along
Set within each other
So as not to be alone
This poem that you're now holding
This poem within a poem
One poem rhymes it all in love
From beginning to the end
Talks of those new beginnings
And the giving within the giving
How love holds a lasting truth
And spreads it faithfully
This poem that rhymes it all in love
Then holds it out for all to read
While the other poem talks of the past
The what has and hasn't been
The artful way of looking back
And how it is now seen
What you gave up that you once had
That you wish you had again
This poem that brings up the past
A scent that's on the wind
Both poems similar in degree
But very different all the same
Both bring love into the notion
That you can have it once again
While they are relatable
In the way these poems both bleed
They both are very different
In their basics needs
So what you now hold in your hands
This poem within a poem
Is far enough apart from one another
But close enough to get along
Placed here both together
So as to not go it alone
This poem of the past and of the love
This poem within a poem
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
Sometimes I lose sense of myself,
my own divination of gifted being
a trivial spark in the vastness of God --
God the Everything:
ethereal body-corridor of
time and space, of countless
universes -- of life-forces
impenetrable, remarkable existence
yet to be imagined --
my desire to treat all humanity
as the face of God, as the substance
of God~ I forget my own individuality
need for personal connection...
my own human....
I forget that God, while all the greatness
is also, that loving, bearded man with
children on his supernal, infinite knee, hearing
their needs and wiping their tears --
I forget the
constant sense of invisible arms holding
me, as though I were yet an infant, desiring
weaning and reassurance of tactile,
loving, real near presence --
I forget that God, though incomparably
enormous, is also small, in every molecule,
every live cell of blessed experience, seeking companionship,
cooperative reinforcement within endlessly evolving miraculous
phenomenon
wanting ever more defined exposure of growth and
supernatural prosperity --
overwhelmed by unknowable God
I remorsefully
overlook my most important
father and son relationship
my relatable portion of the immeasurable
profound -- the simple truth of being
constantly adored and preciously compounded
and guided --
Step one
Smile like stitches not for joy
Just tight enough to hold you in
The kind of smile that never aches
But keeps your mouth from spilling
Step two
Speak after everyone has left
Let words fall where no one looks
Your voice belongs to empty rooms
Where no one asks or stays too long
Step three
Move quiet through morning fog
Become the blur behind the glass
The kind of shape no one recalls
But swears they almost noticed
Step four
Fold your hopes into small things
Crumple them like worn receipts
Hide them inside library books
Where no one cares to turn the page
Step five
When no one says your name aloud
Don’t correct or say it again
Let silence swallow the letters
Like they were never yours
Step six
Forget the weight of your footsteps
The way your shadow used to fall
Not vanished, just uncarried
Like dust that left the frame
Step seven
Smile until your jaw remembers
Not joy, just something practiced
It’s not about being okay
Only about being seen
Step eight
Start leaving before you’re missed
Let time erase you in pieces
Not vanished, just rewritten
Like a sentence no one finished
Step nine
Forget the sound of your voice
Let it blur behind the glass
Not erased but left behind
Like fog that doesn’t return
Step ten
Smile again,
Not because you’re okay
But because the mask
Fits better than your face.
Should 21st Century poetry
For the new minds of a culturally bombarded generation
Be limited from 3 to 7 lines?
Before you answer
To me personally, even though to answer, makes my Heart aches
I like reading poetry built around subtlety
Concealed layers or secretive depths
Relatable interchangeable meanings
Powerful raw stuff that sometimes leaves your eyes wet
Unearthed within deciphering their carefully crafted imagery or subtext
3 to 7 lines of reading, might sound like heaven, but I'm old school
Give me Lord Byron
Shelley or Keats
But I guess
Like an Ode to a Nightingale
Maybe that's the beauty of poetry as She walks in Beauty
And like To a Skylark
It must sing
So I can only hope new generations enjoy poetry, so it continues to thrive and still live
Within whichever form, and exciting tales that will continue to make their own hearts beat
With all it can give
But for me
Reading deep poetry
Feels like sitting briefly, metaphorically, underneath a Cherry Blossom Tree
Enjoying a delicious drop of spiritual tranquility
Are you too, old school and what emotional fluctuations resonate with you?
Are you a three to seven or more like:
Eleven or more is heaven
Reader or writer
Who enjoys late all-nighters
(C) Copyright John Duffy
From my experience anyway
the face of a clock is generally
the face or faces of loved ones
hands~ our contribution of little
extremities that grow, fingers into grips,
arms into outside reaches not limited
to 12 -- like Christ~ the 13th
hearts, from single dwellings,
into villages, worlds and universes
from knowing self and significant
others, into intimate knowledge of
living Catechism...a personal, relatable
Thesaurus of God….
Let the pendulum swing
the gears turn
the crystal vibrate its warmth
the heart pulse from instinctive
memory toward the greater science of
eternal spirit
one is the journey to many
and all
the limitless truth of
Our Being One….
I say “just one bite,” I swear I do
But somehow I keep going, what can I do
Every time food comes near, I give in
And suddenly I’m full again, where do I begin?
I try to be strong I really try
But food keeps finding me, I don’t know why
My fork won’t stop, my plate is a mess
Yet somehow I munch with full happiness
I tell myself later I’ll eat less
But somehow I always make a mess
It’s a tasty trap I can’t escape
I end up laughing with crumbs on me.
My stomach protests but I ignore the signs
Each bite convinces me it’s perfectly fine
I wobble, I giggle, I reach for one more
The snack-filled adventure I can’t ignore
This pant may not fit me tomorrow
But right now, who cares about sorrow?
I’ll deal with it later, it’s all okay
I’ll worry later, I’m feasting today.
Right now, it’s snacks that lead the way,
Who needs control when dessert’s on display?
I eat like it’s always a holiday,
So I lift my hands and shout, “Hooray!”
To be loved,
Is to be confused.
It’s receiving roses without thorns,
And looks without scorn.
The feeling of melting in someone’s arms,
While being unarmed.
It’s being afraid of the dark,
But knowing the moon shines afar.
The wind that brushes hair from your face,
Making your life suffice.
The moth that’s usually drawn to the flame,
Waits by the porch light to hear you say its name.
The glitter on the floor you can’t get rid of,
The thread in the cloth that you stitch.
The one you get to keep secret,
Safely tucked away in your pocket.
Even if their mention never leaves your tongue,
They still make you think you’re enough.
Because they’re job is to confuse you,
And to never leave you.
Because even after they’re gone,
They still linger on.
In the perfume that they wear,
And in the roses that they share.