Long Semen Poems
Long Semen Poems. Below are the most popular long Semen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Semen poems by poem length and keyword.
I bridged the chasm and entered ambiguous halls
Climbed over barbed fences inside my mind's walls
To glimpse the core of how men and women relate
Among flowering vines behind the garden gate.
Within a flower is both gamete and stigma
As semen to ovary - what an enigma!
Nestled deep in my breast, I hear a sultry voice,
"Which would I be if I'd been given the choice?"
I am content with my life in a single ilk
I give in to the urge to wear lace and silk
A little more mascara and blush on my face
I desire to be a lady with charm and grace
I wear jeans and boots, shorten the length of my hair
But some days high heels are what I choose to wear
Two halves of one heart, beating in rhythmic sync
Twins in one body but both sharing the same link
One set of footprints I leave on a virgin shore
I know who I am, but sometimes yearn for more
I'm searching for what lies behind the waterfall
The answer discovered when I hear my siren call
One foot in each of two very different worlds
Climbing trees like boys with painted nails of a girl
When asked my favorite color, I always say it's blue
But I'm also partial to pinks in pastel shades and hue.
I search my thoughts to see if gendering is mental
Knowing I'm more the damsel, not frail but gentle
When my psyche roars like a lion, I can repress
the savage beast in me when I wear a pretty dress
In kindred thoughts my anima/animas keep in touch
I respect my masculine inflection, but not too much
I don't saunter like a guy. I'm not one of them
My hips sway like a girl, so cherchez la femme.*
*Cherchez la femme is a French phrase which literally means "look for the woman."
Said My distraught Mind, sexual pleasure has now left me blank
My Life,
my virginity,
my honor,
my desires
and your wants.
Traumatic these moments
as I stall to deliberate.
Whiles you’re in a scurry to violate my treasured possession.
Flustering fear banging my heart,
my eyes,
my every muscle.
My discipline
keeping me in constant hesitation.
Yet,
I silently concede my most protected tenure
in the name of love.
With tears that you didn’t seem to notice,
as 10 tons of rushing hormones crashing down on me,
violating my every being,
I struggle to exhale in fright.
Now,
I - a victim of my own weakness.
You,
a smirk spreads across your face
your teeth clenched in ecstasy.
whiles my mind devoured me.
Leaves me in disarray.
My eyes gazing in confusion,
my nostrils smelling the foul air of rotten disgusting semen.
In these said moments,
musty sweat rolls off your wild ecstatic pleasured self,
drips on me,
makes me want to puke.
Wait!
You call this what?
Lovemaking?
Hell no!
This is a sick stomach erupting plague.
Could I hate myself more?
Nope!
His grin made me feel so used
cheap and empty.
Devastated
by self guilt
with every wink of my eyes,
but I cannot hide from myself.
He – nowhere to be found.
His life is happy as a clam.
He deflowered me
and feels nothing but conceited pleasure.
Now I wait the gossips to scar me for life,
sneers that will only adding to my suffering.
Should you be reading this –
don’t let hormones steal your life.
Emphatically!
© Al Juman The "said" Poet 1/7/2019
They called it short gratification—
but I lost my soul in the trade.
A moment’s pleasure,
for a lifetime of emptiness,
a spark that consumed
the temple I once was.
O Woman,
your body is not desire’s playground—
it is the chalice of divinity.
If you fail to respect your sacred form,
no man ever will.
Each man you lie with,
leaves an imprint upon your soul.
And when the heart is full of echoes,
love can no longer enter.
She who has known many beds
knows not the purity of love.
Even if she marries,
she loves through masks,
feigning wholeness
where only fragments dwell.
Sex, O Daughter of Earth,
is holy.
Its dignity is not for barter.
Its sanctity must be preserved
like sacred fire—
untouched except by sacred hands.
No woman,
broken into many parts by many men,
can give birth to a saint.
For birth is not biology alone—
it is the transmission of soul.
Emotions are energy in motion,
and a woman’s energy
flows to where she bleeds.
When her soul is divided,
her spirit is imprisoned.
Stay pure, O Bearer of the Womb,
and behold the power you possess:
You gave birth to God
when your soul was whole.
And to you, O Man,
custodian of seed and fire—
know this:
Semen is not waste,
but divine currency.
It takes your body
days, even weeks,
to forge a single drop.
To spill it for fleeting pleasure
is to burn the blueprint of your empire.
Tesla knew this.
Newton understood.
Even Christ guarded His vessel.
Retention is ascension.
When not used to create life,
semen begins to create you—
sharpening mind,
fortifying spirit,
awakening God within.
Your seed is sacred—
the last power you hold
in a world of vanishing strength.
Guard it.
Wield it with wisdom.
Let it be the cornerstone
of legacy, not lust.
Female entities that prey on emotional weak men,
stealing their souls by lust, claiming semen.
Using collected soul fragments to enslave,
leeching and take everything to the grave.
They will cheat, lie and fake all indulgence,
creating a mental sensation emulgent.
Providing gratification to senses by extreme beauty,
remaining forever attractive in effective duty.
Appearing in dreams and illusions of victim,
slow drain with each encounter inflicting.
Making sure of tempting images appealing forms,
giving men access to those fantasy norms.
Succubus appear to please the ego,
where selfish attraction needs to bestow.
Compelling psychic abilities to seduce,
deadly love that only can consume.
Wet dreams and its erotic phenomena,
poor ethical desires and its arena.
Shadow shifting spirits temptation,
easy eye seductive sensation.
Alluring females playful force,
changing directions and its course.
Emotional intelligence is the quest,
and the end of the rope as test.
“The actual guise of her has become apparent” ~~ The Poet
Engaged in rapturous slander.
Forced by reputation to meander.
Through the annals of time,
Deemed worse than a witch sublime
Indicted as a demon in old folk lore
Seducing men asleep to wake no more.
Maligned, falsely accused, my name abused
Demons to keep them afraid and subdued
We have, violent police and false news today
Now the demons had no need to stay
Pitted the mate of Samael, a demon
Though never receiving his semen
Deemed to be starved of love
These accusations, could I rise above?
No killer was I, at childbirth
Twas unsanitary practices for what it’s worth.
Although I was tagged a man hater
My ill repute was changed much later
Rebranded from a malevolent figure incorrect
It was transformed to one of respect.
Becoming a second wave feminist voice.
A dramatic twist in narrative to rejoice.
Now revered for all my positive traits as reliance.
Independence, empowerment and defiance.
Qualities that rendered me refusal to submit.
Accepting this description I freely admit
Recognized as a model to radiate assertion
In all this time never contemplated desertion.
Fortitude to grasp the bull’s horns
Bravery to repel all man’s scorns
Being the weaker gender is now just a myth
Conviction and diligence I am always with.
No bragging of honor, valor or victory is needed
Any compassion I have is now frequently heeded
I advance with the strength to stymie the foe.
Estimate from where I come, but see where I go
Being submissive with piety was never my station
I stand a symbolist reflection of the feminist vocation
No need for a masculine throng to be invited
The powerful fire within me has been resighted
I am, Lilith by name
I feel no shame.
EYE and Heart rambling pounding after death!
kissing bruised valves of mind
breaking ribs and sternum
into the ghost-kiss of afterlife!
aaaaaah!
Love grows a coat of fur, lips thicken
for the everlasting kiss! Like crepuscular,
hiding under the table -- cannot bear to be
seen. Born from an aborted fetus -- crumens beneath
its beautiful eyes! Secrete waxy tears, senseless boredom eating
away within its four-chambered stomach barely
taking sustenance it crawls away!
Everyone refuses to feed her -- lips and hands
smell as semen and cigarettes; god's cock hardening to woody bone for the anger
of his fallen angels! Hey! Go away! Go away!
Autumn rut. The hidden gallons of evil passion
tips back it's majestic crown -- Christ with hands
nailed up, bellowing to Heaven!
the condom falls and again a new universe is born.
Again. And again.
:: 11.12.2020 ::
His name was Ezra but you didn't and wont know him.
An observant nihilist, pouring out vile play scripts in 400 word messages.
Researching one's hyper-fixation so the insomniac has someone who he may believe will enjoy talking to him, rather than a constant concern of lack of interest in himself.
Piss and cock and semen, ripped limbs and drum sticks
Someone with a want for psychedelics, but no need for them, for his mind a wonderland, tripping on DMT.
A hidden understanding in a monotone voice, only used to comfort and the occasional tangent.
A musical genius yet will always prefer the company of harsh noise over another person, for he cant make his mind believe they will stay pouring into his head, ripping his eardrums.
Drowning in self pity, the half-alive man rests under a blanket, eating a pound of raw meat, to build immunity.
Sexual acts in exchange for one to take care of their corporeal form.
A shoulder there if you need it, but the chest, weak and cold.
Piercings attracting the magnetic ankles of those with a savior complex, or so he believed.
Language used to its maximum capacity, yet a smile barely broken in.
A type of thought process similar to that of an electronic, but the ideas stemming from it, usually were rather vile.
Dismissing religion left and right, acknowledging the claustrophobic concept of fate.
only for him to wave the white flag, due to a lack of effort, which wasn't unlike him to do.
I slinked into the bar
hoping no one would notice.
To drink and forget
was all I cared about or
was going to care about
for the rest of the night.
When he first sat down
I ignored him outright
figuring flat rejection
would work on this guy, but
I was wrong. He needed
someone to talk to, someone
to sit near and eventually
someone to sleep next to
or with, whichever would happen.
Finally I asked him to
remove his hands from
his greasy, slimy, semen-soaked
pockets and find someone
else to get excited about.
I just wanted to forget, but
all the drink did
was help me to remember,
remember what I had just
finally walked out on.
Written on paper 1991 after finally leaving a cheating spouse.
if the sinking-of-boat …ice-cream by name
be deducted from the swept-off-in-flood … by name roll no 31
then would the wings of the comics
cease to exist
what says the uninterrupted sound of water-falling
from the stomach of the moon
what writes the pus and blood
what writes the fuming-hot rice
the creepers and the herbs grow continuously
in the insomniac bath-tub
the sounds of the horse-hoof floated by the river
used to change the velocity of its clothes
both in the morning and evening
the birds from the cornice go to school
by dip-swimming
it may come one day when the fishes
become very angry and in the tale of the sweet-meat
the potter will destroy the jointly-built bee-hive
then all hurricane would be habituated to dinner
sans saliva
then there would be no such morning-walk
in the body of the trees
from which such a bore could be found out
through which an elderly saral may fly
into the blue translation of a squirrel
the magnetic field of the orange-pulp
and the productivity of the open window
reside in the same locality
if their frequency be touched
then the the antenna of the mermaids
speared with sleeping-oil
may be injured
by burnings their eyes
the crow-birds knocks at
in the soap-foams
produced by the afternoon
the pond with a jumping deer
wants to make bite
it is not known by this way
when a white hyphen
sticks to the palate of the shirt
now put off all the whispers
and let it be talked on the will-paper of the bees
why the pages from the honourable ash-trays
be excluded
those bunch of waters
that come out from the churning of the anises
and the jumps born of their semen
also make friends with the group-photos
now let this other night sends its best wishes
to the future candles
through a cell-phone
MEN ARE MADE IN TEARS SO BE A MAN
This world's cliché says 'tears are not for men'
But if you cry your eyes out now & then,
you are perceived as emotional, feeble or weak,
rather deal with situations even if bleek,
and act critically rather than speak.
Some of our life's theories and reasons
are invalid and falls short before our eyes,
while some are too machoistically base.
When will you let the water fall ablaze?
And humbly descend from your exalted face?
Men are made in tears so be a man;
Witness the complete cycle of your lifespan.
Shedding a tear doesn't devalue or cost a dim.
I know a lot of us men don't feel the same
We feel running the eyestream is a shame.
In my life, I only have few examples of real men,
certainly not all of the gender that emits semen.
Perspectively, some men hail from different worlds.
The greatest & strongest man against all odds,
broke down and cried...baffling all ye gods.
I have words for you but most importantly, two words:
'Don't forget, "Jesus wept".
And brother, so can you!'
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©? May 2023.