Long Scissors Poems
Long Scissors Poems. Below are the most popular long Scissors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scissors poems by poem length and keyword.
you asked me how to walk with scissors
I said my dear,
that's so bizarre
that's like asking how to get to Georgia
without using planes or cars,
a better man
than myself
would've told you
darling
if you wanted to learn how to walk with scissors
you're better off crawling
you hold them by the blade my love
just like you did to me
you tell me that you love me babe
but I cant stand to watch you leave
I'll watch you walk out that house
I cant tell fact from myth
I begged you just to stay a while
then you walked out,
with the scissors you stabbed me with
now I told you how to walk with scissors,
how could you do that to me?
now I know to hold on tight
because the scissors belong to me
DISTURBING THE PEN
what creeps
in?
insanity of sorts,
leaking
in,
instead of out.
it dribbles
out,
like drool or frothing foam.
it comes
from
the inner sanctum,
barely a
stream,
scissors snip away at contentions,
invention of
hate.
bitterness and cacophony invades.
you toss and turn,
laughing.
like a crazy fool, do not turn over
and look at
the underside.
drip, drop, drip,
on the roof of
your head.
clear your mind and begin again,
putting pen to
paper,
even bend and fly that plane.
ramblings are...
just that.
Conjure up a complete thought.
i see you hiding in the
corner,
cobwebs like sticky curtains.
madness laughs
uproariously.
how insane you look when humor beds your pen.
friction of match
complains,
as a scintilla of flame recognizes your waning brain.
9/20/2017
(This is a fictional poem)
People hate me because I'm the worlds worst barber.
They have grudges that they harbor.
When I cut a little boy's hair, I accidentally shaved him bald.
His dad came in my shop and you should've heard the names I was called.
I gave the sheriff a haircut and I accidentally snipped off his ear.
He shot me in the crotch and put me in jail for a year.
I decided to save money by making my own shampoo.
But I got my scissors crammed up my nose when it turned a man's hair blue.
Some people came to my shop today and said that I can't be a barber anymore.
People would've been happier if they had done that years before.
Form:
The Silencing of Affection
I've devastated your nervous system again like a storm raging,
Burned circuits in the labyrinth of your fragile brain tormented,
I don't want to be the poison that eats your peace away,
I will let you fly free through your sky of glass crystalline,
I will withdraw my tentacles from your secret garden hidden.
I cannot embrace you while you flee like the wind escaping,
It's a madman's madness to cling to your shadow disappearing,
I will accept that you are a migratory bird through my soul,
My hands will become butterflies that fly away distantly,
And my heart will learn to breathe without your echo haunting.
I still feel bound to your heart with invisible threads tight,
You cannot free me but again you are a vanished phantom,
I will cut you from the roots of my being like a disease,
The scissors of destiny will sever these toxic bonds forever,
Freedom will bloom from the ashes of this dependence cruel.
You will never choose my love like a religion sacred pure,
I have no choice but to love myself completely now,
I will be the garden of my own flourishing soul reborn,
And I will nourish myself with the nectar of my own compassion,
While you remain a memory crystallized in time frozen still.
You transform me into a phantom who avoids all touch gentle,
Leave me alone with my melancholy like a mantle worn dark,
I will hide in the cave of my blue isolation complete,
Where shadows will become my faithful friends always near,
And silence will be my only constant companion forever true.
I am currently working simultaneously on twenty-three paintings.
Love being in my art studio, where they are lying all around.
On top of paints, brushes, glitter, glue, scissors, for I am out of room.
My girlfriends are calling, but I do not answer. I am in full blown painting mode.
There is a stack of forty-three canvases to my left.
Are they blank? Oh, no, they certainly are not.
I have already drawn them out and inked them.
They are also ready to be painted.
I play Disney’s Fantasia’s soundtrack as I paint.
When I tire of painting I run my dogs up to their park.
Seated in my lawn chair, I fish out my office.
It is a gray plastic Tupperware bin with a lid.
Inside are dog treats, a notebook, pens, and a thesaurus.
I put the Thesaurus on the table with my eyeglasses.
Sometimes I bring them up, other times I use my spare.
They are also in my outside “office”.
People are clamoring for my time and attention.
I am in full-blown writing mode, so my phone is off.
I hear their dings, but do not even look.
Entertaining myself by knocking out ten to fifty poems.
I can do this in an hour.
Solitude is not only my companion, she is my friend.
I love sitting in the sun doing what I want to do
When I want to do it.
Not having to entertain or listen to anyone’s voice but my own.
Better to be on the end
Of feckless bullying
Than to give into the virus
Of childish trolling
Because no 1 likes
When a hater triumphs
It's the 8th most deadly sin
And gives credence to those
No 1 should give a damn about
Because if they were to be ignored
Would anyone miss them ?
Would they not crawl back under
the rock they troll from
And god willing paper covers rock
And scissors cut through Bull Ship
Bullying comments
This is for the Members you forced to leave
By those who thrive on stirring mischief
Devoid of empathy
And human feelings
Jealousy is unbecoming
And is in fact
The greatest form of compliment
Because if you are worthy of trolling
You have obviously hit a nerve
Far more deserving
Than the wrath you may have incurred
And cuts deeper
Than their patent cry for help reply
As sticks and Stone's may break my bones
But your comments do not phase me
They merely raise pose more questions
Than sadly you provide answers
She still lives somewhere behind the ribs—
that teenage girl, all sharp corners and questions,
knees pulled to her chest in a room
no one ever really entered.
You can see her sometimes
in the mirror’s hesitation—
in the uneven chop of kitchen scissors,
in the stubborn black box dye
that never quite holds the same shade twice.
In the tattoos that blur at the edges,
inked like dares she made to herself
just to feel something stay.
Now there are dishes in the sink,
a phone buzzing with reminders,
small hands or heavy expectations
reaching for her—
asking her to be solid,
to be steady,
to be grown.
But she’s still learning
how to stand without shaking.
Some mornings,
the sun feels like an accusation—
burning through eyelids
that bargain for five more minutes
of not being here,
of not remembering.
Because memory is not a story—
it’s a weight.
It’s a fog that clings to the lungs,
turning breath into labor,
turning simple things
into mountains with no paths.
And her brain—
it does not sing or spark
the way people say it should.
It hums low,
flickers,
runs on survival settings.
Feed yourself.
Keep them safe.
Make it through today.
Everything else is static.
Still—
she shows up.
With chipped polish and tired eyes,
with love that feels clumsy
but is real in its persistence.
With a voice that sometimes trembles
but still says,
“I’m here.”
And maybe that’s where she’s found—
not in some grand revelation,
not in becoming whole overnight,
but in the quiet, stubborn act
of staying.
Of being both the girl
and the woman
at once—
holding her own hand
through the dark,
whispering to herself
like no one ever did:
we’re not done yet.
Lightning, split slight stressors?
Roll, scissors, as you slide.
Questioners and confessors?
Xiphoid, clench. Trench, tide.
Vast and valid, vipers?
Onyx castle, blocks green.
Flippers, flickers, slick stripers.
Stone sabbath subterrene.
Quahog, quill, quincurion.
Quest quixotic quell.
Dark fire, drape the deadly dawn.
Wishing well, cell, gel.
Occultation, oculus.
Occipital bridge.
Holluschickie, thumb callus.
Rift riddle red ridge.
Oblivescent, oblocute.
Deny and forget.
Ladder, down the fiery chute!
Subtlety, snakebit!
Obtenebrous, oil, obtest.
Shadow, grip and squeeze.
Witness called? Will we protest?
Mad maze mysteries.
Obvolvent, ocarina?
As solvents chambers be.
Disabuse, Proserpina?
Why, good sir, that is me.
Halcyon heart, hatchet hold.
Digging for dead gold.
Luminescence? Leopold?
Mycelium, mold...
But a brush and a touch, one parting more.
Delilah, Moon-girl, you stole my strong light.
I, your Sun-boy, am shorn having blackout,
but remember my close shaves, the honey
and dead days, my foes jaw-struck,
as the long-winded she-ass brays in my ear.
With influence silverish, drowning golden locks,
the egg-eating fish-god wins for a period
till dawn's yellow meets me at the next round.
I shake gold pillars in Dagon's stone temple
where uncut spectators are dying to taunt me
but what do I care for I know you await me,
At noon I burn for you,
at nightfall I sigh for you, O Delilah.
What of pride and presentation
When time is short in duration?
An octagon out of a square...
Proverbial scissors used there.
It is what it is - this, I hear
Constantly in and out each ear.
A triangle meets hexagon
In repetition, on and on.
Input dried of saturation...
Effort tried, no compensation.
Ongoing instances of these
Bring situations to their knees.
When unavailability
Of resources persists to be,
Circumstances are made humble...
Everything begins to crumble.
One example - making a cake.
Unsuccessful within its bake
When ingredients are lacking...
Outcome evident of slacking.
If its method is not followed
Proper, it is harder swallowed.
When void of cooking essential,
Cake does not reach its potential.
Take another scenario...
The teamwork of employment so.
When two workers turn into one,
Managed quality is undone.
In regards to minor detail,
Its freshness gradually turns stale...
Pending failure when correction
Is established of inspection.
Conclusions do not come with ease...
What once was, no longer a breeze.
Corner cutting in all respect
Leads to certain snowball effect.
Such distressing leads to stressing...
This, is it worth second guessing?
Band-aids sometimes necessary,
But should just be temporary.