Long Spoken Poems
Long Spoken Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoken by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoken poems by poem length and keyword.
She wasn’t smart but she wasn’t dumb.
she’d want to talk deep but never opened up.
her trust issues kept her inside locking her up while she cried.
Lots of people knew her well but were never close.
only the names of a few she knew most.
Behind those wide brown eyes was a girl who could never lie.
boys would want to play but she would try to stay away.
she would act happy even if she was sad.
didn't want people worrying if she was mad.
Small sensitive heart hated when they called her art.
she's not a canvas to be drawn on when all she wants is real love.
always kept her word, loyal as a dove.
That poor girl wanted help but couldn’t get the courage to yelp.
Didn’t know what she wanted.
always had to keep to herself.
Never felt the need to talk about her feelings.
Nor herself.
She wanted to be understood and for people to understand her well.
but instead she wakes up and puts on a smile that will never be real.
Always cried and screamed for help but only on the inside where no one could hear.
always feeling down but never a loud sound.
always helping others when she couldn’t help herself.
gives great advice but never takes her own,
Broken and hurt, this poor girl was living behind the broken door.
always drained and tries not to show.
people tell her, don't listen to yourself.
but the only thing she trusts is herself.
She never looks behind the glass.
tries to distract herself from the past.
cries in the mirror
cries behind the door
cries people can’t hear as she gets ignored.
The night you realise
you did it.
The thing that lived in your head
back when it was radio voices,
DJ this, MC that,
you in the background
playing pretend with rhythm.
Life throws chaos.
Dreams get buried.
Birthday presents collect dust.
Until one day
they don’t.
Practice turns real.
Mistakes in the dark.
Learning timing.
Learning patience.
Learning that you’re never ready.
Then the moment comes.
You catch the rhythm
and it catches you back.
And all you can say is thank you.
Because some never finish.
Some never see their work.
Some never know their worth.
But for one moment
you know.
You lived long enough
to complete the dream.
The Worst Grief
I believe the worst grief you can feel,
Is the grief you feel for people that hurt you.
You paint pictures of all people in your mind.
But pain dealt to you doesn’t give you time to paint into that picture.
Pain taints your oils, your pigments and acrylics.
And the portrait is distorted,
Burned and burdened with blood spilled out of your own fingers.
But in the rearview you can’t see those smaller smears.
You see the face of the person you cared about one day and an age ago.
The poison only shows back up when you back up —
Take a closer look into that painting.
Its an optical illusion,
Occlusion clouding conscious thought.
That one last “I should text him.” Or that one last “he’s better now, surely.”
You built up walls to keep them out.
So why do we keep opening the gate when they come back?
Don’t talk to me about self-control
If you’ve never cried in your bed
After trying to quit for the 50th time.
Don’t tell me “it’s just a phase”
If you’ve never looked at yourself in the mirror
And hated what you became.
And don’t you dare say, “Everybody watches ****.”
Because that’s the problem.
This generation is overdosing on pleasure
And starving for purpose.
Sex is everywhere
On TikTok, on Netflix, in ads, in schools.
It’s pushed like candy
But nobody talks about the cancer.
Women turn their bodies into brands.
Teen girls trade dignity for attention.
Boys are praised for lust, not purity.
And those who dare to stay clean?
They’re mocked.
They’re “old-fashioned.”
America, wake up.
You’ve become Babylon in high heels,
Drunk off ****,
Calling perversion “freedom”
And modesty “oppression.”
Governments fund the poison.
Churches avoid the topic.
And parents give kids phones with zero boundaries
And call it “love.”
But here I am
One of the ones who got caught early.
But praise be to God, I didn’t die there.
He met me in my mess.
He pulled me out of the pit.
Not with therapy.
Not with filters.
But with fire and truth and grace that burns.
I don’t speak to impress.
I speak to deliver.
Because somebody out there is where I was:
Ashamed, addicted, crying, pretending.
And they need to know
There is freedom.
I won’t shut up.
I won’t water this down.
**** kills.
Masturbation enslaves.
Lust destroys.
But Jesus breaks chains.
So no, I’m not afraid.
If they block me, let them.
If they cancel me, so be it.
If I perish, I perish.
But as long as I breathe,
I’ll burn with truth.
This generation doesn’t need more influencers.
It needs intercessors.
It needs prophets.
It needs warriors
Who bleed and still roar.
I was once bound.
Now I’m free.
And I won’t stop
Until the chains that once held me
Become the swords I use
To break others free.
Let this be the sound of REVIVAL.
Someone called me baby doll today
like it was nothing,
like it was just a name
tossed casually across a workplace aisle.
But it wasn’t nothing.
Only two people ever called me that
One is still here,
alive and breathing
on the other end of a phone call
I keep meaning to make more often.
And it scared me
how quickly love becomes a reminder.
Because life is short.
Because tomorrow is not promised.
Because one day
even the voices we take for granted
become echoes.
And then my mind went to the other.
Her anniversary is coming up
like a quiet storm on the calendar,
and grief hit me the way it always does
unexpected,
unfair,
sharp in the middle of an ordinary day.
I miss her.
Later, I passed the flower display,
rows of softness
wrapped in cellophane and sweetness.
I used to say
I don’t like flowers.
Not because they aren’t beautiful,
but because they die too fast.
Because they remind me
that even the prettiest things
are borrowed.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the beauty of life
is that it doesn’t stay.
That we are meant
to notice it while it’s here
to hold it,
to smell it,
to love it loudly
before it wilts into memory.
Maybe flowers aren’t tragic.
Maybe they are proof
that something can be breathtaking
even if it doesn’t last.
And maybe grief
is just love
reaching for what it can’t touch anymore.
So tonight
I will call and tell her I love her.
And I will whisper baby doll
into the quiet,
as if she might hear it
somewhere in the place
all beautiful things go
when they leave too soon.
Take it all Back
Cracking skulls, padded cells.
Sedated assaulted, belittled and betrayed.
I feel like I’ve been to hell and back.
My heart forever black and stained
I want the world to suffer
I want the world to feel my pain.
I am a product of your system.
I am the definition of the word insane.
it’s in my blood.
it’s in my heart.
it’s in my bones.
It took all my might to retrieve the sword from stone
I got my finger on the trigger
I have a bullet with your name.
you are my tormentor, you are my trauma, you are misery my pain.
You make my blood boil drive me insane.
You are a crusty stain stuck to the back of the bowl.
I am the reaper I have come for your tainted souls
I am an individual.
I am one of a kind.
Re constructed Reimagined, reinvented, redefined
The stars across my skies have realigned
I will take back what you gave stollen from us.
Not because I want to because I must
The powers that be want a world divided.
They want the world living in constant fear of brutality, violence, bloodshed, conflict and war
You are living in the dark ages mother ers it’s 2024
I am your sight.
I am your senses.
I am light.
I am sound.
prepare for a riot
As i stand defiant.
I am behemoth
I am a ing giant.
I am a private army.
I am tsunami.
I am tornado,
I am a hurricane.
I am a kamikaze plane on a collision course falling out of the sky.
I will sacrifice myself to take you all to hell
we all have to die
If you cross my line there is no turning back.
All I see is red
All you see is black
Written by Adrian Bogdal
(Lights dim, a single spotlight illuminates the speaker. A beat drops, subtle and rhythmic.)
Cad Jax. Yeah, that name hummed with the city's pulse, a neon flicker in the back alley of your mind/
(A slight snap of the fingers)
He was Mr. Flow, man, pure, uncut man on the go/
Had a ride that whispered promises of asphalt freedom, a chrome-plated whisper stretched long and low, hungry for the open road/
(The beat intensifies slightly)
The ladies dug him/ dug the swagger, the glint in his eye that held secrets and late-night passion with no promises/
His pockets? fuhgeddaboudit overflowing with Franklin’s fat with the green whisper of possibility/
Dough, man, he swam in it/
(A pause for emphasis)
Superfine cloths, silk that dripped like honey, tailoring sharp enough to cut glass/
Diamond rings, catching the light like stolen stars, flashing a message/ I made it/
Alligator shoes, gleaming menacingly, pacing the concrete jungle. And that cane… that skull walkin' cane, bone-white ivory grin, a silent companion, a reminder of where he came from/ or to beat you down dead/
(Voice deepens, a hint of grit)
Man, this cat was a knockout/ women said he took your breath away and left you dizzy/
Grown men were envious and had a strange kind of respect for Cad Jax/
He always had the game/ knew the angles like a pool shark, saw the weaknesses, and played the hand he was dealt with a surgeon's precision and a hustler's heart/
(Beat shifts, a darker undertone)
Cad Jax grew up hustlin' down in the gut of the hood. flippin’ cards, shootin’ dice, sellin' a high/
Runnin' numbers... for downtown Mick/ a web of loyalty and betrayal, a delicate dance with the devil/
He was never far from the clatter of a movie soundtrack to broken dreams and desperate hopes/
Low-down funky dope bars, reeking of cheap whiskey and regret, the soul-jazz organ crying in the corner/ that was his young life but never behind bars/
(Voice lowers, almost a whisper)
Cad Jax… he was in the flow, alright. but even the strongest current can drag you under/ like quicksand all around you/
and the city? The city will always remember the legend, Mr. Dynomite Cad Jax…
Say, dig what I say
Talkin’ bout a new jazz vibe/
Man, move over/
the Jazz Cookers are hittin’ their stride in the groove to stay alive/
Eddie Henderson/
Cecil McBee/
George Cables,Billy Hart
and Billy Harper/
swingin’ harder jazz be flying/
downbeat, upbeat, man, count It off/
their soul auras are in the jazz notes they play/
David Weiss and Donald Harrison are fryin’ their amps/
burnin’ the house down/
with the jazz club scene in decline/
and record labels cuttin’ back on jazz/
the jazz Cookers have to stay alive and relevant in a jazz-changing world/
so dig, be cool struttin’ as Sonny Clark would say/
you might not always get a payday but you love to play/
the Cookers boss horns are on fire/
hip tones blowin' from the stage/bro, this is the jazz life you chose and after a gig, you might be all alone/
so be in the moment and improvise on your jazz note phrasing/
you’ll find the rhythm and meaning knowing you can play the same note gig after gig night after night/
but different every time/
are you hip to the Cookers?/
they will have you finger poppin’ and blowin' your mind/
wahoo that’s a whole lotta jazz
I have a favor I’d like for you to hug
Listen to this poem before it evaporates
There’s this girl, let’s call her Monday
She's got Cheetah freckles
That make my goosebumps race
Not Inuyasha, but
Her jungle cat growls at me like sit boy
Those sun sprinkles are my decoy
Each honey dot keeps me sticky with coy
Now Tuesday is waiting longer to clock in
And,
Her Dalmatian freckles turn my weakness up
Baby I’m a dog I’m a mutt
My feelings don’t want to hush
She said take your time what’s the rush
There's just something so flawless about us
Learning more has become a must
I'm a good listener trust
I won't make your words blush
Not Inuyasha but
I think I have a crush
She said I’m an artist
Not like a Yorkshire
More like the heart of New York
I’m a medley of Sunday's on Saturday
Fashionista or teddy bear sweats
Looking to hibernate in some lucky man’s arms
Tell me all your dirty laundry
We’ll air it out of the past
I like trips to somewhere new
Or just from the bed to the living room next to you
She’s got banana freckles peeling back my walls
Not Inuyasha but she makes me fall
For her galaxy sand I’d crawl
She responds
I like a man that knows what he wants
Well forget man’s best friend
I’m a mutt and this ain’t smut
But my coat is in the puddle
Laundry is never fully clean
Go ahead and drag me through the mud
She said take your time what’s the rush
I said baby forever goes by faster than you think
If you blink I’ll put a ring on your finger
I’m a different breed
We can be something they’ve never seen
But enough about tomorrow
Can you tell me one more thing
Those cinnamon constellations are invigorating
Response:
I love to dip my French fries in ice cream
That’s so interesting
She be so poodle cute the way
God sprinkled a few more freckles just for me
p.s. Monday's have never looked this good…
The Last Poets
“When the revolution comes,”
Politicians whispered sweet lies,
promising dreams that were never theirs,
while streets echoed with dreams denied,
and voices drowned in blood-stained hope.
Economies built on the backs of the weak,
wealth for the few, while many stayed silent,
coins of gold pooled, but hearts went cold,
hands reached out but never united.
The Last Poets rhymes like Hymns
echoing in alleys,
fingers snap,
feet tap,
words meet the pulse,
the Congo thump lifts hearts,
raw and real,
hip-hop’s roots grow deep—
But what has changed,
in this swirling maze?
Do we still speak the truth,
shout over sirens,
dream beyond the neon flash,
with wide eyes,
still fighting, still asking,
for justice in our sound,
each voice a note,
every story a song?