Long Slander Poems
Long Slander Poems. Below are the most popular long Slander by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slander poems by poem length and keyword.
They said they can’t trust what I say
Cus I lie about everything each day
But lying has never been my way
The attention span of adhd
It’s just an effort I don’t make
It drains my energy being fake
It’s much easier to just be honest
So that is me and that I promise
Mates of mine lie as a habit,
Transparent lies so very tragic,
I’d watch them lie as it entertained
sticked to their story which never changed
When caught they just kept going
It was so stupidly mind blowing
Why bother when all are knowing
On and on their lies kept growing
I would just face up to facts
Not interested in blagging back
Nothing ventured nothing to gain
consistently lying is oh so lame
Call me lazy there’s no point at all
You get caught out and look a fool
But pathological liars think it’s cool
It’s makes them think they’re successful
Call them out they get offended
They turn against on the offensive
tell lies about you and people listen
believing it though logic is missing
And the story is spread around
becoming a most common sound
Until all have heard it before
And becomes the truth for sure
And done before you are aware,
Judgement anything but fair,
When you protest your innocence
Lying is what people sense
The lie is that you are a liar
So guilt is the outcome of the trial
And my mates have been successful
Conning stupid and the next fool
Slander is a real life changer
Close people become a stranger
But who needs those one sided people
Who must be sinister or simple
So I don’t try to win over anyone
Why would I when most are dumb,
It rocks your world to its very core
Get up get on and see them no more.
Born in a high rise, low mind concrete prison.
Delivered gift wrapped to a predestined repetition.
Bars on doors, on windows and wrapped around my mouth.
The loudness of silence.
Unknown entities draped in faded British bulldogs holding pints and childhoods, one in each hand.
The family men gathered whetting their lips with hops, hurt and hate.
Loose Knuckles and loose lips both sink women, I mean ships.
Warm dead paving, a lifetime of chewed up, spat out offerings littering the estate like a Jackson Pollock altar.
Sacred violence.
The bikes piled up on the green, a can in the spokes, a flame, a bike missing, an R.I.P plaque on a wall.
The smell of BBQs, the feel of brick walls baked from sun and slander, the sound of beatings in the distance, the taste of stolen innocence.
Sirens and sadness - a Somers Town soundtrack, 10 blackjacks, a panda pop, and a boy who didn’t make it home. Another child who died alone.
Will I ever be happy here? Free? A story of redemption?
Escape.
Will I make it or just another obituary from the council estate.
We're sashaying around in bubbles
trying to keep that fragile equilibrium
keep the soul at 98.6 degrees.
Sooner or later, they'll come with pins/
Dipped in poison called a different opinion
Bubbles will pop and out pours the venom.
Black hoods, brown hoods and white hoods
slinging bull horns, bats and banter
from Chicago to Boston to Portland
it's all the same sloppy slander.
You're tilting left - I'm tilting right.
Where's Mr. middle ground?
That sweet cream of democracy rapidly shrinking
in the mighty maelstroms of dead dreaming.
Cue balls and eight balls trapped in green sockets.
Madmen and rich men, aiming cold, eyeless rockets.
God trapped in the corner pocket. Quite pissed.
An ogre is seldom awakened by poetic lines
but he shakes his fists trying to slander others.
I laugh at his desperate attempts at writing.
Delighting in his flawed efforts at metaphors.
On all fours this ogre creeps around like a spider
Oh what distorted webs he dares to weave...
when he deceives those who do not know
his penchant for whining and absurd cries of wolf.
He aspires to climb to the peak of a mountain
but fails miserably with each witless haiku.
Do not fear in the false bravado of the daft beast,
but feast on his raves as he digs his own grave.
Imagery is lost among his gibberish blabber...
a rather nondescript description of such bluster.
His script is not clever, thought he thinks it is so.
He doesn't scare me or those who know... whatever
Inanity is the work of such a bootlicking fool...
a tool who yammers thinking he impresses others,
but a jester dances for those who seek a false throne.
Does that ring with a piffle of drivel to anyone but me?
To you I call Lord my immovable Rock,
Give ear to my tearful plea;
For if you leave me to those who mock
I shall at the bottom of the deepest pit be.
Hearken to my cry for mercy
Because I call to you for help,
As my nerves waltz and dizzy,
Prayer shall be my immediate step.
Do not count me among the evil,
The hypocritical who in secret slander
And think that your eye cannot behold
What great malice their hearts harbor!
Repay them what they have to others done
( Let them regret when and why they were born),
Since they show no regard for the works of the Lord;
Their eyes are away from the way of God.
Thank you for already my cry you’ve heard
For you’re my refuge and shield;
You’re too my fortress and strength,
And the sole source of my health and wealth.
Lost Art
There was a time
when we waited eagerly
for the mailman -
when mail deliveries
had actual mail in them
There were real
hand-written letters
from parents,
cousins, children, friends,
maybe a lover,
perhaps birthday cards
or get-well wishes
or postcards from far off.
Now we have e-mail
instant gratification –
no waiting for days
Jot off a note with
a click and it’s there
No more long pages of
small talk about family,
friends, the neighborhood,
or a new recipe,
things that make
letters enjoyable.
Now mailboxes overflow
with advertisements
unwanted catalogues
political cards full of
slander of opponents
and dubious information
Most of all, requests
for money, accompanied by
unwanted and unneeded
tote bags, return labels,
t-shirts and greeting cards -
all paid for with money
supposedly sent
to provide help
for some needy cause
Trees sacrificed for what?
junk mail, trashed as soon
as it’s out of the mailbox!
What of all the history
gleaned from letters
over the years?
Most e-mails are deleted.
Whatever could be learned
from them is gone.
The written letter
has become a lost art.
It’s fun time
Election time
Don’t say
I don’t care a dime
If this is so
You’ll miss
The highs and the lows
Some call it
Dance of Democracy
But you see
It’s no graceful dance
But Shiva's ‘Tandav'
Pulls, pushes and shoves
This is politics'
Rough and tumble
You have to screech, scream
And not just mumble
To be heard
Above the election din
Slander, abuses and accusations- no sin
Calling each other names
That’s the game
And, as for the voters
Election season’s prize catch
Those who can
Make the leaders
Win their poll match
For them
It’s raining freebies
They know
They are being pleased
By something called
The party’s ‘manifesto’
They can see through
Your's 'All truth'
The other's 'All lies'
Now, let’s wait
Till May 23
To know
Which way
Rolls the dice.
The time has come to damp down gridlock and polarization
For the country's citizenry to treat each other with basic decency
To stop resorting, at the slightest offence, to righteous indignation
The time has come...
The time has come to stop shouting and screaming, to restore civility
To stop finger-pointing accusations and character assassination
To stop the invective, the slander, the libel, and to act with dignity
The time has come...
For leaders to get off their soapboxes, to cease the endless bloviation
Not to promise 'free everything,' to promote fiscal prudence, feasibility
To acknowledge the populace's apathy, to lift the veil of total frustration
The time has come...
I seat beneath the Willow Tree and wonder what tomorrow will be
My hands and feet feel so free
I close my eyes and dream of what tomorrow will bring
I wonder about land and how it all began
Before the man ran and got his van they set their plans for a better tomorrow.
I look up from my slander and ask what have we become the wind blows so harshly throughout the Willow Tree I listen closely and hear was this might be.
I look to see the land is not what it use to be it just full of what man wants it to be
The willow tree asks me can't you see what it used to be, there is only me!!.
The Birds have flown so far and in between with no home for a song to get them along. Bees buzz around the willow tree why can't man let it be?
Miss kl worsnop 27 OF FEBRUARY 2023
Aye haint gonna mention anyone by name,
and git myself poisoned
with deadly tocsin, a most wick
kid demise act of vengeance cheap trick
boot Mayan tent to write this poem,
a message came tummy mind rather quick,
and fuel a contrived rumor hoop fully
spreading like wild fire
from this nada so sainted Nick
juiced for pure sport and to kick
start and spellbind denunciatory, deprecatory,
and derogatory unfounded slander
toward one country bumpkin,
who lives in the sticks of Hick
ville, and unfortunately
shares the same body as me,
an old curmudgeon full of (lix) spittle,
with lovely bones that crick,
thus, while spur of the moment whim arose
(take bull by the horns
asthma late grammar used to say), aye chose
to hash out matter of fact playful verse,
while ma doppelganger doth doze
and trump scathing "FAKE" news expose
zing ambivalent (nee loathsome)
punishing sentiments
ach'n ma heart
with daggers of icy sin tax
directed as rhetorical linguistic floes
vicariously experiencing euphoria,
red hot poker glows
within the scabrous, tenebrous,
and villainous haughty yahoo
an unprepossessing, quite,
and nattering kooky human
immune to voodoo
he coon sitters himself smug,
throughout every single sinew
of his (and mine) corporeal essence
directly descended
from storied Machu Picchu of Peru
yet his (ah, and mine)
suppressed genealogy branch
also includes, an a meow
zing small percentage of Neanderthal Jew
evidenced by genetic test 23andme,
which helps explain primate characteristic
dragging (sic) hairy knuckles,
where thick callouses grew
thus aye conclude
(just in the nick of time
as he who must not be mention) drew
a breath upon awakening
from a nap bright tailed,
and bushy eyed anew.