Long Slash Poems
Long Slash Poems. Below are the most popular long Slash by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slash poems by poem length and keyword.
What do you do when your losing faith?
What do you do when you can’t lose face?
When the words you hear just cannot stand?
When you can’t retreat and you can’t defend?
Can’t cut the cord without a knife,
Can I spurn it all and take back my life?
When I hear words that I cannot bend,
Is this still the way or just a dead end?
How can you speak when you have no mind?
How can you live when you can’t define?
Is the water I swim in all that deep?
Are the words they say worth the loss of sleep?
Can’t break the bond without a blade,
Can I let it go without feeling the rage?
They say the easy path doesn’t wait outside,
But what’s the cost of opening my eyes?
Is there any stance with reason or rhyme?
Can a man ever find some space and time?
Are the questions I have patently absurd?
Am I truly a one, or just part of the herd?
Can’t slash the ropes without a sword,
Can I make sense of it in my own words?
Is everything new, but still the same?
Am I to live a life, or just play a game?
I don’t know.
How far do the ripples spread, when eventually we die
Probably stay in the locality, level off, no major outcry
But let’s say we’re famous, suffering unexplained death
The ripples keep expanding, growing further in breadth
See the grotesque nature of spin, is to overplay a scene
Garnishing public outrage, lurid pictures fill our screens
Playing to an audience, ratings become the holy grail
Stories without embellishments, grow tiresomely stale
These ripples are an illusion, imagination going berserk
Carried along by a corrupt deception, truth been shirked
Evidence the one requirement, for establishing all facts
I extrapolate backwards, what the hell there’s no splash
Lines converge into partial truths, confused to a degree
Must be taken with a pinch of salt, querying what I see
Even this soup we enjoy, is manipulated and massaged
Most of the poems are quite good, others form a mirage
Taken out of context a rectangle, can become a square
Brought into focus, desolate pictures, not quite so bare
What’s basically a clean stab, or slash across the wrist
When poets stick in the knife, some give it a good twist
Using poetry for a hidden agenda, political or otherwise
Tantamount to mind-numbing crap, seen in the tabloids
If your going to post propaganda, to further some game
Write it on toilet paper, wipe off, that’s all you’ve gained
By
David Kavanagh
See it?
The cracks, the fractures - open, bleeding.
My mind laid bare, a battlefield of glass,
barbed wire threading through my thoughts,
indoctrinating spirals slicing through every soft impulse.
Chaotic proportionality,
twisted in the wake of your hands.
You constructed this wreck,
hammered rules into bone,
scarred my spine in silence,
every word a shard left to corrode in me.
visceral in every memory,
every cut screams with the echo of control.
Ant still-
you walk on it.
step after step,
your words drive splinters deeper into my skin,
indifference pressing down like stone.
Every slash bears your signature,
every jagged edge charts the space you occupy
while I lay shattered beneath it.
I do not flinch.
I do not move.
I am the ruin you made me,
exposed,
and yet you're still upright,
on the pieces of me
you discarded.
I've had enough of the usless drivel, hypersenitivity and endless snivels
We're more fulfilled I hear so often, yet the fruit on show to me seems rotten!
A girl of 9 cut down by a gun, floods of drugs; engineered and spun..'
Borderless war, we're doing well.' No father's for many; childhoods of hell.)
Mothers are sidlined, (the state is all) whatever's dictated now thats the call.'
Dress like a mummy.' Would that be safest? I'm not surprised lifes devestated.'
I'm writing now not as I would.' Joy is proscribed fewer smiles in the hood.'
It is a challenge, just holding your nerve, anti-sense; the current trend and verve.'
Why not slash your throat, and drink, to health.? Calling it, as sense by stealth?
The reason most aren't 'satisfied', no matter the volumes of goods and pride.'
The word and act, ( are of satan derived ) you feed the beast, it eats you inside
And spills it's driven reasonless; cargo, deflating human worth, from each get-go.'
It's all community and culture I hear, while unity is shattered and nations fear.'
Is fear a commodity? Despair a road? Seems so from watching the waiting goads
The social whip, the endless quips, deriding stability as a worm in wood slips'
I say culture, centuries old; should be valued, not cheapened; diluted sold.'
All the the while, bellowing loud, that cultures multi, can unite the crowds.'
It's such non-sense, as we all know.) Yet showman and women just go and go.'
The tanks half empty, it's the theme that's chosen; to chill our blood, reality frozen.'
Let it go,
let it flow -
cut it with your words.
Slash at every piece of it
until it finally hurts.
Tear and open up old wounds,
pouring in the salt.
Take aim at it and fire away,
pinning down the fault.
Yeah, all those little thing
that you pathetically hold
onto so desperately
as you continue to get old.
You’re like the dog the scripture says -
“to his vomit” it would seem.
Yeah, like a broken record
and you know just what I mean.
But this time you can pack it up
and take all of your .
Shove it right straight up your ass!
I am sick of it.
Cuz this time it is different,
I’ll no longer be the one
that you can still manipulate.
Baby I am done!
And the storks drift inland,
landing on the sand's hungry mouth.
Salt-bleached cabins line the shore,
waiting for their stone eyes to inspect
Which baby should be delivered next?
Ah, yes. There is a home of sawdust,
where the panels have begun to cry.
They watch the tumbleweeds scrape the
foundation, and they quiver.
This child is ever so quiet, it's
as if it somehow knows what waits.
Glass voices begin to boom sharply,
the bottles of whiskey are seashell shards.
Into the open window it goes, that
tyke. Thrown onto a stained cot.
It scratches; its skin blistering with a hellish fever
Yet the child sucks their thumb and hums.
When the stork comes back to see,
whatever this child is up to,
who this odd little thing might be...
A desk with crayons, paper,
and notepads heavy with solemn prayer.
But at least, it has dodged Death's claws.
For in the bedroom door,
there is a knife slash so
perfect, it should have maimed.
Raw is the madness
bathing me in crimson dreams -
those dreams surreal
in which I battle
all of the unholy beasts
I cannot fight against
when I am sane . . .
for sanity binds me
to the ground
so that in my wakened state
I can’t manage to rise up
as mighty as a warrior
against the many dragrons
spewing their demonic fire
across a woken land.
Reality's new normality
conceals the beasts' true nature
making them seem harmless
even making them seem good
Nonetheless
I see them . . . I hear them . . .
I smell their disgusting stench
I wait for Slumber Land to carry me
to the place where wicked dragons
easily are recognized
There I can be the real me
who I am down deep inside;
I draw my sword
and seething with raw madness
I slash away
As the sun melts away and the shadows advance,
I sink into a chair; gaze at the dying light.
I should think 40% would do just fine, there's a chance,
of sinking in swiftly to sleep so white-
soft noise to drown the cries of all men,
and the pain of the chase for occasioned success,
and the knowledge that I shall soon be up again,
to live for what reason? I couldn't care less.
Let me dream, please let me dream!
Let me walk in the land out of thought, out of sight ...
There's a curse we must bear, yet no one can scream,
when faced with dark foes wielding swords black as night
that slash the flesh and pierce the heart of me.
The blade they bear: responsibility.
30 October 2018
It seemed to happen in a flash.
Our movements were rash.
Behind the breakfast bar
With scraps of potato hash.
Our webbed little feet
Stuck in a muddy mash.
Scores of us slip-slapping up the alley
Unabashed, with feathers
Mucked and thrashed
Finally on the road and--boom! Crash!
Linda was blindsided,
Some trucker with a stash.
There were eight of us now
Headed for a small pond in Wabash.
Just 200 waddles in the razor tall leaves
That thrash and slash.
Finally the four of us left see
Beyond the man-sized vines
The immaculate vision of the chicken party.
The most bodacious aquatic bash:
The one they call "The Chicken Splash."
BE BRAVE
Arrogance, squabble in perplexing plight
Public in anger, aggression only to fight.
Incorrigible incredible chaotic crisis.
Notorious nefarious nastiness needs Nemesis.
Outrageous turmoil ignites blunder.
Come on soldier not to surrender.
Noisy nuisance indiscipline to recur
Malice mischief mended in massacre.
Pandemonium prevailing amidst of devils
Prime time to eradicate crimes and evils.
Oh Warrior! Slash smash tormentors: Be bold.
Be merciless, ruthless to unsheathe your sword.
09/12/19
First Place
'Any Poem You Want To Write With Words 180 or Less' by Caren Krutsinger
'STRAND CHOICE 6' Contest by Brian Strand