Long Scrawled Poems
Long Scrawled Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrawled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrawled poems by poem length and keyword.
On cold evenings
Surrounded by friends
Warm and
Safe
I could stay up forever
Taking strength
From the blackness
Talking
Dreaming
Feeling that I could float upward
And walk with the stars
On their lonely journey
Through heaven.
There was a girl
I was with then
Tall
Graceful
And beautiful
When I first saw her
I wanted to feel her softness
Her breathe on my cheek
Her hand
Brushing against my thigh
When I held her close
And even closer
I wanted her
To say she loved me.
Together
Our love
Had a perfect balance
Of
Teasing and challenge
Spontaneity
Courtship
And seduction.
A subtle change
That I never understood
Came about
The closer we became
The more anger
And resentment followed
When she smiled I was envious
When I laughed she was angry
We broke up
We were young
It was my fault
Her fault
Our fault
Or blame it on the times we lived in.
Outside my room
Footsteps echo
In a long and empty hallway
And like an undeliverable letter
A message scrawled
To no one in particular
Haunting visions are
Returned to me
The slenderness of her waist
The way she arched her back
The touch of her hand
The way she kissed
I feel her presence
Yes, I relive all that.
In the frostbitten belly of Russia’s spine,
Where the stars are mute and the sun won’t shine,
A man with chains and a shattered past,
Counts the heartbeats that may be his last.
He once wore laughter like a second skin,
Now silence lives deep within his grin.
No mirrors here—only ice and stone,
To remind him daily: he is alone.
They took his name, his books, his light,
Left him with shadows that whisper at night.
Even the wolves keep a gentler pace
Than guards who mock his hollow face.
A letter once came from his mother’s hand—
Trembling words scrawled like lines in sand:
"My boy, the snow falls heavy at home.
I knit you a scarf. I pray. I roam..."
He pressed it to his lips, to his soul, to his chest,
Then buried it like a bird in a nest.
For hope, in Siberia, is a fragile thread—
Too bright, too kind, and quickly dead.
Through iron bars he watches the sky,
Wonders if clouds remember to cry.
He dreams of bread, of spring, of rain—
Of someone calling his name again.
The birch trees whisper like ghosts in rows,
Their branches bending with ancient woes.
They too are prisoners, scarred and still,
Sentries of sorrow on the white-laced hill.
Years pass like smoke in a bitter wind,
And time forgets the crime he pinned.
But not his soul—it bleeds and sings,
Of stolen summers and broken wings.
So if you pass that northern land,
Where silence wraps the earth like sand,
Pause for a breath, for a tear, for a name—
For a man in the cold, who bears no blame.
Somewhere, a mother still waits at the gate,
Counting the snowflakes. Counting his fate. ??
This place where once this stony throne once held
such dreams that only youthful minds conceive
and where the child within myself once dwelled
with innocence so pure I could believe.
Yet now this debutant sits here again,
no magic nor a love at beckon call,
and wonders where it all begins and ends
like our words in chalk were carefully scrawled.
Though even in the rains they're washed away,
they own a place in time when we were free
and here forever's where my heart will stay
and welcome all of time to share with me.
So I will dwell here longer in my lair;
for all eternity my life prepares.
Nov. 13, 2019
LOOKING FOR HOME
a magnifying glass spotted a WE little woods
in a tiny village with the wonder of memories
a crayfish creek with human legs splashing
a stone wall to balance on a sandbox donut
a swing set put together with tweezers and
precision minute tears and laughter wings
a minuscule trunk to yell down from to hang
a rope and seat a peace sign scrawled on
a santa-size mailbox filled to the brim with
bills, cards, letters, and no dope because that
would be illegal and the government truck
might show up to take you away HA HA records
with fingerprints, etchings, scratches, speeds
i’m dizzy spinning around and around landing
on tomorrow where the records have shrunk
and stay entombed in plastic cases or players
and i am gulliver the giant creating havoc on
life’s travels, skipping ahead, practically losing
my head like goliath leaving small problems
behind dragging my feet like a bag of christmas
toys unable to open not allowed to peek NO
FAIR I stomp my heels wanting my way I THOUGHT
big people tall as trees always got their way and
my giant parents now I level with me clap
their hands in cheers and victory forgetting the fog
that encircles their knees in a tiny toon town
Kim Rodrigues © 2016
Anger smolders like burning coals;
igniting flames that consume souls.
The Gaza Strip is bombed in mass,
as hearts shatter, like broken glass.
Torrid tongues of fire lick the sky,
tasting Death as the jets scream by.
And there is no safety in caves
nor shelters that morph into graves.
Israelis don't believe it's odd,
Muslim blood stains the hands of God.
For words scrawled on banners of hate:
tout that Gaza will rue its fate.
Mother and child, entombed by Death:
pray for vengeance, with their last breath.
And spilled on the altar of pride
an ocean of blood: drowns each side.
There is no pity found in age;
for the young and old, share their rage.
And as righteous flames sear the ground;
hate, mistrust, and revenge abound.
In the whispers of the night, a silver thread unravels,
And we wander through the ruins of progress,
Bathed in the glow of dying stars.
Listen, the moon sings a melancholic lullaby,
Its light a phantom caress on the cheeks of time.
Oh, the tales we scrawled on the parchment of hopes,
Now just faded ink in the corners of oblivion.
The corridors of our steel dreams stretch endlessly,
Yet within their cold embrace, the spirit trembles,
Eroding under the ceaseless march of hollow triumphs.
What are these towers we have raised?
Skeletons of grandeur in a desert of yearning,
Their shadows merely the phantoms of misguided ambition.
Oh, how they sing of progress,
While the soul withers in a cage of shining lies.
See the rivers of our dreams, turned into veins of sorrow,
Carving canyons of despair through the landscapes of our being.
With each step we pretend to climb towards the heavens,
An echo of descent into the abyss of our essence.
We wear the masks of advancement,
Behind them, our faces sculpted with lines of disillusion.
In the heart of every machine, a silent scream of the forsaken spirit,
And every click, every hum, a requiem for forgotten wonders.
We thought we would conquer the stars,
But only stoked the fires of our inner darkness.
Behold, the end of the modern world,
Not an apocalypse of flames and fury,
But a soft sigh, a vanishing dream,
The illusion shattered like glass under the weight of truth.
And in the final light of dusk,
We find not endings, but mere whispers of beginnings,
Seeking solace in the twilight of our own making.
In the gritty alleys of city schemes,
Life's grumble rides on subway beams.
Rhythms clink in the rusty car,
Street-wise notes play on sidewalk tar.
Concrete cracks hum a tired tune,
City pigeons coo under a polluted moon.
Taxi horns blare, a cacophony's cheer,
Sirens wail, the soundtrack of fear.
Life is a song, a honky-tonk brawl,
Cement jungles, a chaotic sprawl.
Urban beats pound in rusty shoes,
Overtures conducted by construction crews.
Life is a song, a discordant rhyme,
Concrete canyons in the urban grime.
A traffic jam's crescendo, a city's drone,
Melody mangled in a monochrome tone.
(Bridge)
Subway rats squeak in the sewer's groove,
Graffiti tags on the alley's cove.
Metro tunnels hum, commuters blend,
In this manmade scape, no celestial trend
Even as elastic-plasticene toys we bend
and we bend and we bend and we bend.
Street vendors shout in a market square,
City lights flicker in a neon affair.
Concrete dreams crumble, a harsh street art,
As the cityscape plays its coldhearted part.
Life is a song, a jumbled beat,
Wise guy rhythms in a crowded street.
In the urban score, we play our strife,
Notes of survival in the concrete life.
The final act, a city's weary kiss,
An asphalt encore, a gritty bliss.
Life's song, a graffiti-scrawled word,
In the noisy streets, an echoing absurd.
I missed you with a burning flame and fire
Like you were mine.
Though when I knew you I had no desire
To have you, once gone, sunken in the mire
I missed you as if we were intertwined.
I’ve since let go and seen that I was wrong,
And now I know that I will be just fine
As I was all along,
Though you weren’t mine.
While learning from my Great Mistake,
I wondered how
The friendship that I fought to make
Was, on your part, so wholly fake.
I did not see them then, so take a bow -
Though visibly scrawled in your eyes,
In plain sight written on your brow,
I loved your lies,
Though I don’t now.
Your tell was clear, and presently
I spoke it and
So there what I spoke bravely
Became regret; so solemnly
I watched as taken from my hand
And stripped away from heavy heart
What I’d fought for, this reprimand
There took from me
And broke apart.
Now that was long ago, and far
Away behind.
I have no scratch, no bruise, no scar
But hope that wherever you are
You keep me written in your mind,
Forgiving me for this, and whole
Are you. For I know you’re the kind
A peace to find
To bless your soul.
As the autumn of my life approaches, a bit of memory fades,
But I still recall very special times from my primary grades.
We did things then now considered politically incorrect,
Enjoying Valentine and Halloween parties - no one did object!
The Valentine party was the social event of the school year.
Kids secretly expressed affection for that very special dear.
They deposited their cards in a box covered with colorful crepe;
Walls were decorated with hearts of every size and shape!
Someone scrawled on the blackboard, "We Love You Miss Ruth!"
And below were scribbled the names of her adoring youth.
Valentines cost two for a penny in those uncluttered days,
A cheap way to express puppy-love in such endearing ways!
As the cards were distributed, secret admirers gave a shy grin;
Boys received saccharine cards much to their chagrin!
Miss Ruth served cookies, popcorn and chocolate milk,
And heart-shaped candies saying "Love" or something of that ilk!
Miss Ruth gave a special hug to every girl and boy.
Her love and care topped off a day of delightful joy!
I fear that the children today may never again enjoy,
The simple pleasures I knew that today, some vow to destroy.
Now I wonder if in this day and age where anything goes,
If children are even permitted their affection to disclose?
Or have the politically correct creeps decreed it ain't okay,
For kids to celebrate innocent love on Saint Valentines' day.
When you leave, turn the lights off—
It matters not to me,
For I am the last subtraction
From the sum of humanity.
The stars have blinked their final light,
Planets turned to dust,
The galaxies collapsing inward—
Even silence starts to rust.
Religion is a dim memory,
A ghost caught in black holes,
A story written long ago
To comfort frightened souls.
There are no children laughing now,
No lullabies or cries,
The oceans boiled to vapor
Beneath expanding skies.
The food has all turned to dust.
The fruit to ash and bone,
And the singularities whisper,
But find themselves alone.
The atoms sigh their farewell,
Entropy takes the throne,
I speak aloud my apology—
To the vacuum, the unknown.
No ear to catch my final words,
No god to take my hand,
Just math unraveling slowly
Across a dead, cold stand.
The pistol's echo curls in dark—
A physic with no cause,
An end without a witness,
No grief, no pause, no laws.
So when you go, dear traveler,
Leave nothing, not a spark.
I am the last equation
Scrawled in the empty dark.
When you leave, turn the lights off—
Let the void complete its part.
I am sorry.
Truly sorry.
That no one hears me talk.