Long Skin Poems
Long Skin Poems. Below are the most popular long Skin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skin poems by poem length and keyword.
It's a big world, don't believe it
try driving through Texas on a hot August day
with the AC out and the windows down
nothing but road and space and a clear blue
western Texas sky.
Unmerciful sun hammers down and it feels like
it is hitching a ride along side of you.
The breeze through the car window feels like a flame
scorching your face, only the evaporating sweat
ceases burnt skin.
Driving to oblivion with no other vehicles to be seen
just miles and miles of open road, and beside the roads
shrubby trees and pastureland with moo cows
roasting in the heat swinging tails to swat flies
always a lone abandon house crumbling to dust.
At least the bluebells bloom on the side of the road
in spring. This ain't spring. Just a Texas summer
that rivals the furnace of hell. Out of nowhere following
you from behind a hearse driven by a gaunt thin tall
man with eyes as blue as the devils'
Why you feel uneasy not sure but a heavy foot
on the gas pedal for distance, the rear mirror
shows the long black Lincoln limousine shinning
behind, behind, behind...no more
a smirk of satisfaction and ease to go slower.
It's a big world you turn to your destination
life again, noise, streets, buildings, people
it even feels just a bit cooler.
turn in to the house driveway to park, open car door
stretch those legs and arms, look and see
Next door in the driveway a long black Lincoln
limousine, naw it couldn't be, got to be another hearse
Out the neighbors door gaunt thin and tall devil blue eyes
nods his head. The world feels small now
it is just not big enough.
I gaze beyond
the silver winged
heart of
twinkling twilight,
lost within metaphors
in warm cashmere
bows of midnight.
Whilst lava lamps
for lost souls
f l i c k e r across
a maze of melancholy,
ghosts of past whispered
surreal sagas through
subtle mists~
silky snow that
d r i z z l e s
in the shape of crescent,
slowly trails
my moon-kissed skin.
If only the stars
of scarred silence
spoke the voiceless
truth raised from
the arms of trauma~
not every glowing
ray is destined
to be your wish
come true,
I was sculptured
in hailstones
of burnt ice,
and my ivory nails
drowned in the color
of your fire blood.
I am the throned
mistress of massacres,
a walking black storm,
that strikes onyx lightning
upon pearlescent
roads to hyacinth healing.
For everything
I touched
became frost,
when heavy clouds bled
to paint the skyscape
in citrine powder.
Perhaps, there is
no need of stretching
your fingers in gratitude,
as it shall
soon abandon
every lucky charm,
like the death of poetry
within inked
pages of
an accidental poet.
Yet, I still see
the unwritten
verses in your dewy eyes~
unsung
poetic confessions,
written in
diamond and rust;
“you’re the poison
I’m willing to take”
Like how romeo
died in the name of
a forsaken tale
told by the infatuated
soul of his Juliet~
Cupid’s bow still
is adorned with her
love-struck tears
that emanate
unshed truth.
So let, the alchemy
of dreams concoct,
a perfumed potion
from black
quartz rain,
to ease this caricature
lifetime of memories~
chasing sonnets
contrived in sorcery,
to seize the stories
of
misplaced prophecies.
whilst hope is flying
on paper wings
of a dark
horse carousel,
where my past self
was crystal-gazing,
to see the crown
carved from rhinestones
of shattered glasses,
piercing through
my honey mane.
But, this immortal
heart will remain
in a museum of
Monet’s garden,
where sorrowful
serenades linger
above thornless roses.
For I am heaven
and hell for you,
in everlasting awakenings
transcribed in turquoise
topaz till tomorrow…
Back in the 1970s, the BBC destroyed many episodes of the classic Doctor Who.
That is exactly what they should be doing to the new.
They should take the new Doctor Who episodes and destroy them.
I truly despise those episodes, I sure as hell haven't enjoyed them.
I stopped watching the new Doctor Who and I'll never watch it again.
I hate that show with a burning passion, it really gets under my skin.
They like to use it to spread political correctness.
And because of that, the show is a mess.
I wish that people would destroy every DVD and Blu-Ray of the new Doctor Who that they've bought.
Doctor Who has been ruined for me and as far as I'm concerned, the people who are making it can rot.
For many years, the classic Doctor Who has been my favorite TV show.
But I really hate the new Doctor Who and Hell is where it can go.
The new Doctor Who TV show is something I avoid.
I loathe the new Doctor Who, it should be destroyed.
It's impossible to hum with your nose blocked
Don't try it you'll give yourself a hernia
About two hundred babies are born every minute
Guess there's not much doing in suburbia
Dust under your bed is your own dead skin
Unbelievable but that's what they say
There are more nerve cells in the human brain
Than there's stars in the Milky Way
The water you drink has already been drunk
By others, what a charming thought
Donkeys kill more people than plane crashes
That's not something I think of a lot
A million dollars in one hundred dollar bills
Weighs only about twenty-two pounds
A disposable diaper holds seven pounds of pee
That's too much information I've found
97% of money contains a trace of cocaine
Have you sniffed your dollar bills of late
The glue on Israeli stamps is certified kosher
This leaves me in an overwrought state
10 million bricks are in the Empire State Building
Masons surely had a heavy load
That's it for now but there'll be more to follow
Keep an eye out for them down the road
I searched for you through the endless expanse of night’s long blackness,
The shimmering light from a crescent moon offered little help in my quest for your elusive form. The pale light dimly lit inconspicuous objects and cast shadows of their beautiful contours upon the ground to thwart my pursuit at every turn.
Radiant eyes peered at me from within the cover of darkness,
And mysterious intonations and melodic resonance echoed into the night air, confusing my sense of direction until I was lost in a maze within your protective purlieu.
Fighting my frustration and fear that I may never gaze upon your majestic beauty, nor hold your rapturous warm body against my cool skin, or savor the taste of you on my tongue, I gathered what was left of my strength and resolve, and continued my silent pursuit.
Guided by my heart and uncontrollable emotions and hunger for you, I somehow broke free of the discountenance feints set upon me to mask your true course. The hunger within my heart and the vision of you brazed within my eyes, guided me toward your lingering essence and ultimately to where you now hide, deep within the confines of your sheltering den safely held tight within the cool moist earth.
As my long sleek form slithers into your place of refuge I strike and sink my teeth deep into your neck and as my coils embrace your supple body, I am overcome with powerful emotions emanating from your very being, and at that moment I knew my hunt was not in vain. To taste your sweet flesh wound be unlike any that has ever been known between predator and prey.
Woman’s Desire
What’s all this rigmarole and claptrap
About the man being the only one thinking of sex?
Well, truth be known,
A woman, skin deeply eager, thinks much of it too…
Once leaving the job, after
The shopping; the vaccuuming; the cooking; the pots,
Pans, and dishes; after the childrens’
Homework, meals, baths, and good-night kisses;
Once the cat and dog have gone out and in
Twice, been fed, and cooed over while petted;
After inquires about her spouse’s work, complaints,
And wishes; after the phone calls to people of concern;
After checking the bank account, new emails, and
Cleaning out her handbag; counting out lunch monies;
Preparing the morrow’s snacks and clothing; writing
The lists of to-do’s and schedules; and, preparing medications…
Afrter all that, following ten minutes of rest
In a cushioned chair,
Among the first wishes of her long-patient body,
Is for some time to linger, living
Pleasure’s words whispered by her passion’s tongue.
A woman desires to lay felt and feeling sensuously
With her beloved, warm and spent,
Close to sleep at her side.
——————————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 9/16/2023
The poor man’s name was David Dorn,
he was murdered by rioters,
trying to defend his friend’s business,
but the reaction quite disturbed.
The media wouldn’t say his name,
all mention of it soon was dropped,
since Dorn was a good family man,
and ‘worst’ of all, a retired cop.
Such people do not help the left,
no boost did the man’s demise give,
so this man’s loss was forgotten,
he didn’t fit the narrative.
Her name was Jessica Whitaker,
and she said that, “All lives mattered.”
Because she disagreed with some
she was shot dead, cruelly murdered.
Her three-year-old lost a mother,
and her fiancé lost his love,
but she was pale and believed ‘wrong,’
so no media picked it up.
She wasn’t a chosen ‘victim,’
and she had the wrong adjectives,
they would not speak of this great crime,
she didn’t fit the narrative.
His name was Cannon Hinant and
he was a boy, just five years old,
when his neighbor chose to murder him,
and leave his tiny body cold.
Such a vicious and savage act,
but the media had no time,
Cannon was white, his killer black,
so they said nothing, acted blind.
Had the skin colors been reversed,
we’d hear nothing but their missives,
only ‘some’ lives are worth reporting,
he didn’t fit the narrative.
Objective, ha! That’s such lie,
they’re propagandists through and through,
and you’ll be pushed aside quickly
if you don’t help their point of view.
They tried to hide cities aflame,
bathe us all in their deception,
if the full truth might hurt the left,
if it might cost them an election.
Horrific crimes they’ll push aside,
as if these victims never lived,
God damn the mainstream media
and their partisan narratives.
These people deserve to be remembered.
"When Silence Speaks" poetry contest.
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
2nd Place.
Date Submitted: 07/05/2024
the air conditioner soothing my heated skin
fire brick curtains with their red dyed orange
bumblebee rays peeking through gaps in between,
they have so much to say
so much to say to me
ghosts of muffled laughter snuggling my ears
crinkled edges of faded eyes and scratchy rugs beneath my feet
labored breaths running after a face resembling my own,
your lingering warmth has so much to say
so much to say to me
a hand in mine and a skip in my step
wandering, marveling at street vendors, the bustling market
lavender dreams blooming under our eyelids,
that quiet understanding has so much to say
so much to say to me
heaving shoulders in a dimly lit bathroom,
tear tracks melding into the glass of a splintered mirror
this lonely silence has howled its piece,
now I have nothing to say
nothing to say to me.
"Sometimes, the heart holds on in silence—tied to old habits, haunted by what could never be.
cry swallowed by shadows, a confession born from obsession and self-betrayal. This is not a love poem. It’s the echo of wanting what was never mine to hold"
The past still hums beneath my skin,
an ache, a whisper, soft as sin.
The urge returns—
to speak his name
and stake my claim
without a shame.
But oh,
I weave deceit
with every breath I dare repeat.
It’s not the world I seek to fool—
it’s me,
the liar,
the longing fool.
And now,
these thoughts, they bloom and burn:
What if I claimed him in return?
As if my heart could rewrite fate,
as if desire could recreate
the right to love,
the right to stay—
when I threw that all away.
I know—
don’t I always know?
He shines beyond what I could show.
Cazzo...
Still, I dream him mine
in secret rhyme.
And so, I wear the silence well,
a ghost who lingers in his spell.
No kiss, no word, no sacred sign—
just old habits
and the lie
that he was ever mine.
Beyond the mighty Humboldt
Where the Artemisia blooms,
The broken ribs of mountains
Lie tilted toward the sky.
‘Twas called a wretched wasteland
That Satan, himself, passed by;
Where no self-respecting bird
Would stay if it could fly.
Its rivers are pretenses,
Called navigable by law.
Thirsty dragonflies may wing
Thirty miles to find a spring.
Nature gave it acne skin,
Best summed by this report:
“A most paltry stretch of earth;
Ugliness of no import.”
Miners dug just short of Hell
In search of bonanza lodes;
And found the gold and silver
To fund Mister Lincoln’s war.
Battle born, the Silver State
Lent much to the Union cause.
The Union will pay its debt,
With Yucca Mount’s toxic load.