Long Sadtime Poems
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Invisible Door
Sometime one day somewhere one when
Maybe Friday or September two thousand and ten
Or nineteen sixty five
Someday I’m not too sure
It must’ve been then
I stepped somehow
Or miss-stepped someway
And through and into the invisible box
I didn’t realise it at the time
I couldn’t see it or when
And where ever I went
I moved inside and with it with me
We moved and were together
The invisible box and me
And in my sleep with my dreams
While waking
Slowly I so slowly I slowly vanished
Inside the invisible box
Slowly so very, very slowly
My thought became quiet
More words less than complex
And mouthing silence
I slipped from the mornings
From the mirror
And wandered nonentity
Through the toy town late at night streets
And my heart became more secret
As did my language
So my eyes became more veiled
And recognised no one
Steadily surely disappearing into nothing
The …….. ness of something inside the invisible box
And time passes in the invisible box
The years drift and life continues
A daily invisible and hourly incognito
So ………………………. ?
Now ………………………?
Who am I ?
Where am I ?
Though I know exactly these things
It makes no difference
As I continue existence
Inside the invisible box
Am I happy ?
Am I sad ?
Are my hands searching for the invisible door
Of the invisible box ?
But I think though I am not sure
It takes another hand
Someone else’s hand
To open the invisible door of the invisible box
For a long, long time now nothing has entered
And nothing leaves
A series of moments
Seen through a window or is it a T.V. screen
Though I think
Though I’m not sure
I remember everything
Funny but I can’t seem to recall just when it was
Someday one time one where some when
Maybe it was Tuesday or February two thousand and twenty
Or maybe even nineteen eighty nine
I must have miss-stepped some way
And walked into the invisible box
And time runs out and nothing you do
Goes beyond repeating
A slow steady sickness as the world forgets me
Inside the invisible box
The invisible box
Inside the invisible box
I am
nobody
"His touch is like a poison, withering my rose,
Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip,
Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind...."
Delicate and sweet, fragile to the world.
Strong and sturdy, thorny.
Such a sweet scent, soft to the touch.
Red as blood, green as peace.
I gave my heart to a man.
I cried enough tears to water my rose.
I put in the sun to brighten up, cheer up little rose.
I trusted this man with my rose, big mistake.
His touch is like a poison, withering my rose,
Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip,
Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind.
I watched her sweep away in the wind,
It was raining that day; it was pouring.
Maybe it was really the heavens,
Or maybe I was really crying, I can't recall.
I just remember one minute I felt him warming my rose with his voice.
I remember the way she smiled when he brushed her cheek.
That love pouring out forth from her very being.
Never felt such a rush, such a trust, such a touch.
He smiled at her, and took her into his arms,
And for the very first time, kissed her.
I remember how she'd stretch her leaves up to the sun,
Smiling all her previous fears and hurts away.
She heard him say he loved her, she was glowing.
The dew from the night before, came and went,
Time and time again, it never stuck, never stayed.
She kept getting picked, kept getting pruned,
But always kept healing and coming back.
She'd lose her petals, lose her color,
But in time she'd be back the same again.
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter.
She'd survive and beg to be picked,
Picked by the right man who wouldn't let her wither.
Always the wrong one.
His touch is like a poison, withering my rose,
Burning from the inside, black out to the last of the longest petal tip,
Ashes beneathe his fingertip, gone with the wind.
Form:
High upon the mountain
a castle stood so proud.
Down below in terror
a noise was stirring loud.
The Baron heard the voices
he had short time to wait,
for he had to get away
his object of such hate.
Up the hill they came
with torches burning bright.
Up towards the castle
they were a blinding sight.
The Monster was so slow
he lumbered cross the floor.
Then down a winding tunnel
behind a hidden door.
The Baron led him out
and sent him on his way.
Then went back to face
the price he"d have to pay.
The villagers were all in.
Intent upon destruction,
that thing the Baron made
of human part construction.
The castle was on fire
as the Baron reappeared,
the villagers fell silent
as they faced the man they feared.
At the edge of forest deep
the Monster turned and stood.
He would never understand
why he was misunderstood.
The Barons voice was loud
as he shouted"God forgive,
that you should all destroy
the miracle i made live".
There was silence for a moment
as if they knew not what to do.
Then hysteria took control
and bedlam did ensue.
The castle was burned down,
the ashes now so cold.
It has fallen into legend,
a story to be told.
But deep within a forest
after fifty years and five.
The Barons work is breathing
and very much alive.
Alone and in despair,
afraid to show his face.
Hated and despised
by all the human race.
A victim of a time
when ignorance reigned supreme.
And science had became
a lost forgotten dream.
A human tear fell down,
the Monster gave a sigh.
He only had one wish
if only he could die.
I like to pretend this is just another hand-me-down story by my grandmother,
another black and white 1950’s photograph tucked away in a shoebox,
that the first time
a glass of whiskey scorched through the cataract of his veins
never spilled onto my face like a test tube exhausted in blood,
saturating my cheekbone like a steam room and
dashing the walls of my chin into his knuckles
was just his way of telling me, “I just want to protect you.”
The second time was just a joke, I promise.
We were playing “pretend you were my wife”
Would you etch the contours of your fist
on the corner of my right eye like?
Making it harder for my peripheral vision to detect your next muscle.
Making it easier for you to see me inside out,
as if this whole time you were searching for my mother inside of me
“Yes, a little closer to the bone, would you?”
He left the shadows of his knuckles on my neck like a pearl necklace
“I could hear them contracting at night,
the bruises trying to find a blanket under my skin:
it gets cold when he is around.”
The third time was less painful.
My muscles were immune to his mood swings.
I didn’t flinch anymore.
My body was a dummy:
fearless and helpless.
I earned each swing like a dog treat, he said.
So the next fists became an epulotic agent for the bruise before and after it.
I expected them with good intentions like birthdays.
Felt them like panting flesh fixed in a coma.
This was normal.
By the end of the month,
my face was an ant farm,
overwhelming with caverns.
I would tear from each cleft as though
my face was a strangling sponge,
after another striking dinner.
I think it’s time for my poetry to find a new home.
It never really liked the weather
here and it always got sand stuck in its shoes.
I think it’s time to leave this sultry surrounding
that has given my poetry chapped lips and
left it with a desert growing in its mouth.
It’s time to take out these knives stuck in my
baby poetry’s guts – like the sharp edges of these
tall tall towers.
It’s time to forget these orange faces with lonely
souls.
Lonely like a cat dying on the streets at 2 AM.
Like a butcher’s eyes.
Like the cute girl with the lisp.
Like the old pious man working at that alcohol store.
My poetry has spent too many hours building
blocks under the sun when they were
bound to fall apart.
My poetry has seen way too many
gigantic malls and
has met more insignificant people than it should
in its natural life-span.
My poetry ought to revolt now before it is too late.
It ought to rebel.
Like the small pieces of glass
that were missed while cleaning.
Like the scar on a single 35 year old
woman’s face that
refuses to be concealed with cosmetics.
Like the appearing and re-appearing
of a salesman’s true accent.
My poetry was never content here anyway,
it always worked extra-hours at a minimum wage.
The closest my poetry ever got to friendship was
watching the pure sight of it and
smelling the stench of its odor.
In fact, my poetry should leave this
suffocating chain of envious antagonists
who pretended not to care that
it was published.
I think it’s time for my poetry to
pack its things and get the hell out of here.
What is Love?
According to everyone Love is inexplicable.
But the questions remain:
What does it mean to be in Love?
Does it mean you would die for them?
Does it mean that you miss them when they’re gone?
Does it mean that the real thing is better than your imagination?
Or does it simply mean that you can never stop thinking about them?
What does it mean to fall out of Love?
Does it mean that what you do with them
Is just something and nothing all at the same time?
Nothing of value, just as if you are going through the motions,
Not quite all there inside, yet you wonder
Why do I want them so much?
Does it mean that you are no longer happy with them,
But want them near you all at the same time?
Does it mean that you don’t want to be around them,
Yet at the same time you do?
Does it mean that you sometimes wonder
If dating someone else for a little bit
Might make more sense?
That maybe that if you spend time away
Then in the end you will know what you really want.
Knowing all the time that it was the first break
That made you realize you Loved them in the first place.
Can you still be in Love and think these things?
Because in the end, the question isn’t
How do I know I am in Love?
But rather,
How do I know if I have fallen out of Love?
You can always figure out whether or not
You have fallen in Love with someone
There are so many people who can tell you
What it means to be in Love.
But there are very few that can tell you
What it means to fall out of Love.
The hardest part is figuring the latter out,
Not the former.
Form:
Well my dearest one, I guess this is my stop.
This is the part where I run, or my heart shall drop.
I'll grab my bags, and so I'll move on.
Gather up my rags, and I'll be gone.
Should I turn and say, my final farewells?
I'll just turn away, and remember the stories you'd tell.
The ghost of you, remains without the slightest hint.
I'll think the love true, as I remember your scent.
All these wounds that leave scars, shall never heal.
Tears fall like stars, bring pain so real. Please my dear, look away from me.
The end I fear, for it's something I cannot see.
There's just no reason, no reason to live.
I'll just fall through the seasons, though this lifes abusive.
I just walked away, where could I go tonight.
This game I no longer play, for there's no reason to fight.
This situation absurd, as I just walked away..
She couldn't say a word, what was there to say?
Why couldn't I tell her, the real way things went?
Maybe I wasn't sure, maybe I missed a hint.
I'll be the first to say, I've messed up so many times.
I'll be the one who's not okay, evem after these rhymes.
Why couldn't she tell me, where I went wrong?
Couldn't I see, the message in her song?
I feel the water rising, time to lower my head.
This searing ache is not surprising, time to fall in bed.
One last song, one last rhyme.
I've always done wrong, until the end of time.
So goodbye, this is my end.
I don't die, yet I lose a friend.
You can't be my one, for I thought you were done.
I can't be here, no not in this story.
I cannot be here, for I have no glory.
Oh summer sun’s dusk, the last of its kind!
Now season to tame the bloom that was wild,
Dyed leaves in the air and their rushing sound,
Go dance in the wind like flares in the ground,
This time it’s his time to wither and die,
This Tree that stood straight front my window by,
Those summers and springs while all looked up high,
It hinders my sight- see Venus in sky,
But now it’s his time to wither and die,
This tree that stood straight front my window by,
Now I am among that can cherish her,
Gone in my perspective- all the Tree’s blur,
I saw her meet the leafy winds of fall,
And through the cold her grace and beauty crawl,
This winter and fall we all looked up high,
At last so I see, I see her in sky!
But this spring had sprung along with its bloom,
The tokens of past are the guilt and gloom,
Rise in its remains front my window by,
Hence there I had gazed my loss as I cry,
“In the humid air as drenched earth below,
Down to his shade where there I was spared so,
And back the days where my peace was at stake,
The anger I shared- these all for my sake,”
For those where his deeds whom I had seen least,
They all were unveiled as now he’s deceased,
So here I see forth- winter! Oh its grief!
Dyed are in the air; last sun’s gloomy leaf,
Shame! Fool, I was fooled. Sweet lies in her hands,
Thus so I’m to look his corpse where this stands…
Front my window by. Radiates those good nights,
I send my rejects to all her invites!
-oOo-
Screaming and singing.
Listen to the words
carefully.
They're saying,
" I'm sorry, but
were done."
Typed and wrote.
Look at the script
closely.
They're telling you:
"I love you, but you're not
worth it."
Whisper and talk.
Strain your ears to
hear.
Whats said is true-
"No one wants
you here."
Maybe if you look
closer...
Maybe if you
listened to the
underlining meaning...
Maybe if you actually
paid attention...
Maybe then you would see,
I'm not the person you think
to be.
Maybe then you would hear,
my words of cheer
are calls of distress.
Maybe my laughs
would turn into cries.
Maybe my singing
would turn into screaming.
Maybe then my writing
would turn typed.
Maybe then my talk
would be whispered.
Maybe you'll start to see
that every time I wave
goodbye, I'm afraid it'll be my last.
Maybe you'll start to notice
every time I hug you, it gets
longer and tighter from the last.
Maybe you'll figure out
my tears of joy, are tears of pain.
I might not hear your jokes again.
Maybe you'll actually read
what I wrote, and maybe your
eyes would widen, and maybe
you'll be able to tell...
"What I say is true.
Look at what I'm telling you.
Look at what I'm trying to say!"
Maybe when you read this
you'll finally find out
what I can't say.
But that won't happen.
Most likely,
you'll turn your back...
and walk away.
Form:
Before I had a boy's perfect body,
the sharpest mind and a spirit full of energy;
even strangers complimented me
on my selflessness, asking God to bless me!
Had I known then that youth wasn't eternal, unlikely the indelible seasons
that renew themselves accordingly, I would have had
a different view of how it should have been lived...
with a more purposeful insight, which allowed no time for regrets!
And that boy's perfect body, carved by loveliness ,
could be seen in photographs belonging to another century;
thick hair and a smooth face defined a neat appearance...
to make plenty of girls stare at me desirously!
O young years, why didn't you warn me of your hastiness?
I could have made the effort to slow you down,
and enjoyed you more without ever wasting time in idleness!
Beautiful and care-free days, how can I posses youth again?
I am still kind of handsome, much older now,
and ladies adore my good looks, once flashing a sweet image
in those attractive and radiant smiles of long time ago,
not worried about any wrinkle revealing their true age!
Before I had a boy's perfect body...
magnificently sculptured like Michelangelo's David;
my adolescence began with my physical beauty,
and ended with that ravishing vanity tossed aside!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci