Long Skewed Poems
Long Skewed Poems. Below are the most popular long Skewed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skewed poems by poem length and keyword.
Plagued by incandescent ferments I grapple zealously,
with tower blocks of titan topsoil myriads,
and melange of eccentric foibles,
considered by some to be a minus,
but without this composite what is my real nature?
reflection on a manifest mettlesome being,
leaden skewed traffic jam’s tailback of relative prospect,
normalcy a supernatural synonym,
apperception fringed by lambent twinkling,
that tantalising twirl of clustered countless spirits,
quirk-some inklings seem a weakness,
whilst chasing galaxy of plus point,
self-ostracised by atypical apparently conflicting plethora,
grave as in shadow id, tombstone stark exit but salutary motto,
etched eerily by one staunch depiction,
on catalytic other form of self,
unresolved human traits in multiples,
indicative of lack, lack of bearing?
me that nutrient rich plot that has,
this wondrous green blade potential compass,
me as sumptuous summer gust freshener,
of inner coastal home philosopher’s dwelling,
me an endless random version,
of charcoal midnight gleeful ghost,
blithely skimming chimney tops on deep quest,
yet nascent dawn usher lurks within,
augurs well for that sound ultimate coexistence,
despite an underbelly of niggling doubt
Hopefully I’m kind
at heart but rare traits might just
scupper thoughtful aim
Some people say I'm strange,
I guess that could be true.
They just don't understand,
My kaleidoscopic view.
When the world gets them down,
They tap into their pain.
When the sky begins to cry,
I'll just dance in the rain.
All the unhappy couples,
That made a choice to wed.
My contentment's complete,
While alone in my bed.
Those taught to judge others,
By the color of their skin.
The only message I'll share,
Don't put 'em down, let 'em in.
Too many cower in fear,
They're so afraid of death.
But when the Reaper comes for me,
I won't curse my final breath.
It isn't rocket science,
Or some complicated math.
Just the willingness by me,
To walk down my own path.
as the sea serenades
sorrowful symphonies
of marine ruins
I listen to the crashing
crystals within
sun-drenched sapphires
married to
the memories
of once
upon
a castaway prose
blissfully blocked
replaying an
unwritten
reality
for silence is my siren
luring mermaid
moon-flowers
to an island of
spiritual embers
emanating emerald anthems~
a storm
of
slithering sepals....
yet unfair is the tide
hollow and cold
p u l l i n g
at fragile silk
of whimsical waves~
a skewed ambience
lost in mythical sagas
amidst stranded souvenirs
sighing
and weeping
vulnerable verses
forever yours,
never mine...
I should be writing lyrics I'd sing to you in a love song
like the nights when you were here with me to listen.
But everything between us is awry and terribly wrong.
You'll never see the tears in my eyes but they glisten.
No longer can I sleep in the bed we once shared
or look at the pillow where you rested your head.
From this suffering, I wish we'd both been spared
without wounds to be healed; without tears we shed.
I cannot write lines skewed with romantic thoughts,
of walks along a beach, or kisses in the moonlight.
In wakes of crashing waves are two broken hearts.
Memories visit me as shadows hovering every night.
I will never find a love poem written by your hand.
There is nothing we could ever do to make amends
for reasons why you don't walk beside me on the sand.
What if heartache I feel over losing you never ends ~
If that is to be, a daunting mantle will fall over me,
a cloak never lifted from my eyes in fear they rest
on you with someone else, for I could not bear to see
your hands lovingly fondling another woman's breasts.
She sits composed, not as a woman,
but a lavish landscape of angles and cubes,
a psychological collage of splintered dissonance,
visible in the fractured facade of grief.
The body portioned into pile of unsettling planes,
the face split between the skewed profiles,
the misaligned eyes displaced down,
the limbs contorted into implausible grace.
All depict a geometric frame of emotion,
not a reshuffled shape of reality,
an embodiment of inconsistent identity.
The jade fingernails disrupt the flowing fractured form
with glowing color of concealed liveliness,
or of radiant rebellion, a disguised persistence
that something within her opposes deformed repression.
The facial deformation isn’t just style preference,
etched on unusual emotional visage,
but an artistic assertion of authority.
Yet, with the display of her amazing vivacity
the distortion doesn’t demolish Dora Maar,
but accentuates her charisma.
Inspired by Dora Maar With Green Fingernails by Pablo Picasso
Words "can" get you killed these days, they can inflame primitive passions in prehistoric minds!
What's worse, if those words pose a threat to power, by the simple act of
speaking the truth, (even if you congregate a big enough crowd that will listen),
and(if that crowd gets too big for bigger eyes and ears), then bigger egos,
with power, will see you as a threat, therefore making you a bigger target!
Yep, you really got a be careful on what you say, to whom you say it to, and more importantly, where you say it at!
With all the surveillance cameras, microphones, and satellites monitoring everything you say, or do, or dream, poses a threat to all of them!
They control both your dreams and nightmares! And they're more interested
in making all your nightmares come true!
And if they don't, you can bet, that there is one of their minions, just itching
to scratch their itchy trigger finger!
And you thought your hopes, your dreams, and your words were yours?
Silly Rabbit, tricks aren't for kids anymore.
The big boys got 'em, and tricks are getting dirtier by the hour!
I feel like I can't get clean enough, after basking in the bile and bacteria bred
by the "Barbers of Fleet Street!" My skin chills to the bone!
So, be cautious of their cut, cuz all of your open chatter, really does matter!
Your words linger on a razor's edge, and that edge is sharp, it cuts deep,
and it cuts quick! But, it never cuts both ways, you can "bank" on that!
Thus, we're living in a time where it's prudent to self-censor your own speech!
Words themselves may not kill, but the minion with a gun in his hand...can!
And will "kill" you for what you say these days! Whether you speak of your
passions, your faith, or lately, your political point of view. Just because "their"
view has been skewed by the rude, by the crude, by the ones with a foul attitude, "We" are its victims, its pawns, its prisoners!
So...Good luck everybody!
And more importantly...watch your words!
When I was young I couldn’t wait to go outside and play
when school was not in session on Christopher Columbus Day.
We were taught all the stories…how he sailed the ocean blue
with the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria…in 1492.
We were taught he was a great explorer, across the oceans his boats swirled.
We were taught this Italian man who sailed for Spain discovered our new world.
He’s such a navigation hero our history books proclaim
that cities across this nation are christened in his name.
He’s been given the ultimate accolade…banks are closed and children play
as we commemorate Christopher Columbus with his very own holiday...
But then a strange thing happened, we found the history books were skewed
and we weren’t ready for the things we read or the feelings that ensued.
It seems this new world theory comes with a little hitch
Columbus wasn’t looking for America he just wanted to get rich.
He thought he’d sail to Asia when he left Spain that fateful day
but he was wrong about the route and America got in the way.
It was in the Caribbean not America where Columbus made landfall.
The fact is…he never landed on or visited America at all.
About his claim of discovering a new world…it’s a very misleading stat
I think the Native Americans might have something to say about that.
Because if I’m not mistaken they were here many years before
Christopher Columbus accidentally bumped into their shore.
And would a man who we’ve been taught was courageous, great and brave
kill the people who were already here or turn them into slaves?
Would we still look at Columbus Day with as much innocence and pride
If we knew how he decimated a people and committed genocide?
No, I think it’s time we stop giving Columbus so much dignity and glory
and teach our children while they’re in school…both sides of the story.
Perhaps then all of America will commemorate and cheer
those who really discovered our country…
you know, the ones who were already here.
So the next generation of children will be excited to go outside and play
when their school is not in session on Indigenous People’s Day.
FOR LIZZIE
I do not live by drawing breath
By drink or beat of heart
I live by love my purpose to
My child all joy impart.
My drug, her unexpected smile
What e'er the reason be
I could for days float on a high
And on her laugh OD.
As she has grown to womanhood
I'm filled with admiration
The love she shows to all she meets
Regardless of their station.
She's never won a Pageant crown
Or medal made of gold
Yet she is a priceless human being
Whose soul I get to hold.
She is too perfect for this world
Whose judgment's skewed by hate
And many may not see her worth
Until it's far too late.
So I count myself the richest queen
My thanks will never falter
For I've been blessed with two in one:
A treasure and a daughter.
Out of you and me,
The colors of our skins
And our humanity,
Comes the scarred history
Of the home of the brave
And the land of the free;
Where it always was held true
That in you and by you—
And only for you—all men
[of your hue] were created equal.
Indeed. Said the darker hued
Were merely aped to be manlike
That the icon of the new nation—
Slavery and the pursuit of happiness—
Could be perceived as that negative goodness
That only servitude and meek humility could bring.
What deed could be more gracious?
Snatching savage beasts from a darken land;
Cultivating them to be docile beasts of burdens
In a bright new world—Slavery—the common good!
But time is a funny thing. When it passes,
It still leaves its footprints behind. Dark hued
Ancestors are gone; but their audacity remains
Showing and leaving heirs what new tormentors
Will never ever see—what their eyes were watching.
What our ancestors saw, our eyes are now stayed upon.
Contrary to skewed belief, we too, were created
In the egg of life—laid free in history’s nest—incubated.
Now pecked free, we come laying our claim to the vision.
Freedom is not a human gift. With eyes stayed on the prize
We now come laying our claim to the liberating promise of God.
A definite air permeates
When in the walls of my room
Projected productivity is it?
Or rather the reflection of what those expect of me
Identity found... lost, through my grasp
Hard to dicier or fully know
Craving change, something swift
Yet nothing short of raw, with nature as my muse
Possibilities seem infinite, away from these parts
Just the sheer art of crossing unforeseen paths
Evoking my soul and lust for life, I sit and wait
As if the trust I should place in myself lies agape
Too close to home, I feel exposed
To judgements, expectations, and morale I hope I lack
By that I mean from their skewed sightings of things
And so the awe of discovery calls me
Replacing shame, resistance, anger, yet-
Through times of stagnancy I surely say...
Have I truly surpassed these past felt ways?
Assured, I realize triggers do arise, often times
Standing in the kitchen, pacing the halls, walking
Phone calls, a pause, anticipated familial talks...it all
Tales to be told to the generation to be
A family I will hold dear, never inflict previous cycles upon
Shared highlight reel of what once was, and everything in between