Long Ruthless Poems
Long Ruthless Poems. Below are the most popular long Ruthless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ruthless poems by poem length and keyword.
I Shoulda Seen It Comin’
I shoulda seen it Comin’
Won’t allow the blunder to happen at all !
My schedule to be pre determined
to prevent
the event
meeting great fall.
I shoulda seen
it’s coming:
Bell ringing
to listen
beforehand
I could stand
on my feet
perfect fit,
avoiding blunder.
Not to surrender
as hit by thunder
without any cloud
Blast allowed
Rowdy ruthless
Me helpless.
I shoulda seen it comin’
giving warning!
But sudden Tsunami
thrashed on me
causing devastation,
life long lamentation.
02/04/23
I Shoulda Seen It Comin’
Contest by John Lawless
A picturesque snow dancing iced winter rings,
imagine its artic coat tail’s sheer zoom,
frosty shriek from children who flaunt its soft melt flake,
the zeal unleashed by doting winter veteran kin attachment,
if adult figures shiver they might whoop,
as well as gorge ravenously on a chilled feast,
from cascade to wobbly ad hoc cold spurt gaze fixer,
snow is both Christmas rampant friend and foe,
aching frostbitten trees with swirls and limp splatters,
gardens bear the ruthless onslaught,
of wispy white sourdough layers,
hoarse vocal mantra cushioned quiver,
in that agile limb shudder on a surface torrent,
fantasy upon fun-filled fantasy such wonderland entanglement,
immerse oneself in the occluding snowball sphere,
camaraderie of fellow eye dazzled worshippers,
at the swooning atmospheric glacial shrine tangible,
of frozen vapour tickling and teasing awestruck mirth,
so ephemeral in its momentary winter surreal deluge,
yet impactful mind lodger so audacious in its billowing beauty
In hallways hushed with painted lies,
They glide like ghosts in silken skin—
Their secrets shimmer in their eyes,
Too delicate to hold within.
Barby Doll smiles with perfect grace,
Behind it waits a hungering heart,
Each selfie frames a porcelain face
While something deeper falls apart.
They whisper sharp as winter wind,
In circles cold as marbled stone,
Each gaze a mirror trimmed in sin,
Each laugh a dagger thrown alone.
A thousand hearts inside one phone,
They scroll, compare, and seek the flame,
Yet feel more hollow, more unknown,
Than when they barely had a name.
The truth is passed in locker notes,
In bathroom stalls, in timed replies—
A world of filters, thorns, and quotes,
Where no one dares to meet their eyes.
Oh fragile queens of ruthless grace,
You wear your sorrow like a crown—
If only love could find this place
And gently, gently pull you down.
Potent grief exists in the paternoster
recited by exiles each break of dawn —
and they never cease to mourn with drums.
Exiles are men
with two lives,
and they often fast,
preferring to sip gently the treacly sap
dripping from the eyes of fortitude.
Riding the thin line
of the horizon,
they seek truths underneath
receding rims of the atmosphere —
the truths
of a desolated homeland
atrophied by distance.
They do not pray
only to return home,
but to meet their mothers’ funerals —
Mothers harassed to death
by ruthless authorities
whose diaries speak of languor.
How do pirates with their eye patches
count the stars,
and how do feathers of thinning clouds
react to the invasion of rioting storms?
Exiles are native drummers
gone for a festivity yonder.
Like the dead, they live in the
hearts of those who truly love them.
The moon casts shadows of deep cold glare
Grumbling engines roll and tear through the quiet loss of silence in the evening air
Practice over the walls of dam
For a mission that will change the fate of man
See giant birds with still wings soar
Listen to the dinning engines roar
Feel the presence of courage and cunning and dare
For heroes in winged beasts soaring through the air
A squadron of men and science will deliver
Something that thought of now makes me shiver
The Derwent rehearsal for the wings of war to soar
Now honoured as heroes and will be forever more
617 may be a number to me or you
617 is something way more than cool
They broke the stance of mankind’s most ruthless killing machine
They tore through the flesh of the nazi regime
For the men of ‘Operation Chastise’ with badges with these numbers on
You’ll be remembered as the best of men as the years, decades and centuries go on and on.
In the indifferent desiccated wasteland
obscure tender tufts of slender grass
struggle to rise through the cleavage of ruthless rocks,
their tips holding the pearls of dew drops,
sparkling in the shine of the rising sun.
I see in them the faces of the children of fate
lighted by the waning smile of residual innocence,
although regrettably for them the sun rises
with no rays of hope, no tinge of dream,
for it has already set in the dark horizon of future.
The infirm dew drops don’t bejewel the grass,
they’re tarnished by the dirt of our times.
In the harsh winds of servitude
they toil, uncared and soiled,
they dry and disappear, ignored and abandoned.
In the glare of the blazing sun
the dreams of dew die premature.
It pains me, it hurts me
to see their blank colorless faces,
carrying the vestiges of joy of juvenile splendor,
flowing in tears, drowning in the depth of obscurity,
Nobody helps, doesn’t hold their hands,
nobody cares, doesn’t take them to the shore of wellbeing.
In my twilight hours
I wish to give the last rays of my setting sun
to the hue-less dew drops, so they can glow,
I wish to drip the last drop of empathy,
so their innocent smile doesn’t dry,
I wish to show the children of deprivation
the dreams of dew that would never die.
I have to kill him because he’s my enemy;
if I see the moving shadows, whether they are children,
women, sick or old I have to sweep them out from the field
because they are the obstacles to accomplish my mission,
the killing is not only non-crime
but, in order for me to survive,
massacre can even be justified,
and no day or night is there
in this ruthless killing field.
Following the mixture of light and darkness,
no time, just the extension of light and dark
I run, lie on the ground, or
crawl to sustain myself
and when I sleep out there
it becomes my home
or can be turned into my grave,
a detestable spot of a life’s journey,
a wrongfully fixed life’s cycle’s moment.
Surrender to the rhythm
under the world!
The night music of ages
Dance the Dance Macabre
Clubs deep bass seeps
Into Dark corners
as the lunar keeps the time!
Electric lights keep the rhythm
under the world…
Absent images in cathode
rayed tubes keep the thump and hum…
The feet move to the groove
The pulse of a heartbeat
in ascends in rhythm and rhyme
to a world beyond worlds…
Divine!
A never-were that never was a
Neverland…
Nevermore!
Keep in metronome march.
The ruthless ragged raging rhythm.
In the earth under the currents of life
dance the Divinities, the dance Macabre!
Of the world within, and the world without surrender to…
The rhythm and rage
of the metronomes grace!
The rhythm under the world…
ENVY
The deadliest sin
envy ruins self and others.
Cause of strife and crime.
Jealousy slays peace and love.
Nasty enemy
playing drastic dangerous.
Sinister instinct.
Oblivious ominous,
slowly poisons soul,
develops malignancy.
Wound needs ruthless surgery.
10/19/18
5/7/5/7/5/7/5/7/5/7 ending in 7 syllables.
The sun is burning
Population growing
Poverty pulsing
Rich repeating
Man-beating
One meeting
Fleeting
Ding.
Phone alerts ringing
The chorus is singing
Fear is clawing
Up our throats, feasting
Least of all, dying
The moon is rising
While the Earth is spinning
Heads are pounding
Bosses are hounding
No more housing
Delousing
Ping.
The microwave meal is ready for eating
Time for feeding
Has your skin been shedding?
How’s the fat shredding?
Oh you’re still driving?
No that’s not quite thriving.
Who’s business have you been minding?
Theirs? You’re kidding.
Careful who you let be king
What keeps you ticking?
Ruthless ruling?
Careful clinging?
Shower singing?
Enjoyed by all that will ever -ing
The long forgotten hanging.