Long Stabs Poems
Long Stabs Poems. Below are the most popular long Stabs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stabs poems by poem length and keyword.
Of all of the maladies
that pay us a call
emptiness must be
the darkest of all
Like a thousand blank pages
of an untitled book
Or a lifetime of savings
that somebody took
This consummate void
that kills all your drive
is made up of darkness
and it eats you alive
And the world brings the darkness
but it offers no cure
Just ten thousand treatments
that man must explore
And just when he thinks
that he's found the right one
the emptiness stabs through
the heart of his fun
And blacker than anything
blind eyes can see
there's nothing at all
where your heart ought to be
So again and again
you try something new
in hopes that this darkness
has pity on you
But alas it shall not
for it knows no remorse
Your only hope now
is in changing your course
No hair of the dog
will ease your pain
It will just further wash
your life down the drain
You've breastfed on garbage
upon the world's teat
but the milk has all curdled
and is no longer sweet
The next time you find yourself
down on your knees
try talking to God
I'm sure He'll be pleased
He doesn't barge in
He's a gentleman, you know
but on your invitation
He'll happily show
He'll take all that darkness
and replace it with light
and all of your troubles
shall flee like the night
So I hope you choose wisely
to start life anew
You can take it from me
I was once just like you
© Mike Wise
4-27-23
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
Love's the greatest emotion
the human heart can conceive.
But, like any miracle,
it's real if you believe.
Lust ignites passion's flame
within hearts numbed by neglect.
Yet, places you in danger
of losing your self-respect.
Gathering remnants of tears,
doubt scuttles a hopeful heart.
And it is devastating,
to watch your dreams fall apart.
Betrayal stabs trusting hearts,
over and over again.
And leaves you crying inside,
unaccustomed to such pain.
Feelings of uncertainty,
converge to obscure your fate.
And soon, the specter of fear,
turns elation into hate.
FIVE
She carries the repentant over the floss…
As little children, wrapped in swaddling clothes,
She comforts them and helps them bear their loss
As gently as a shadow, so she goes…
Forgives the one who stole her golden coin,
Forbears to hurt the bullies who hurt her,
Forswears revenge, invites them all to join
Her in a jolly round-dance, ‘neath a fir…
For Heaven is a happy place where all
Our slips, and stabs, and slurs, and stares lie down,
Forgotten, while we deck the merry hall,
And everyone forgets to wear a frown!
And so, arrive the sojourners at last
To join the angels in joyful repast!
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Tacked across the window—it hangs askew.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
The reds all clash—they’re far from harmony,
But hey, it fills the space and hides the view.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Its threadbare pattern does not speak to me;
Much too common, and maybe that’s your clue—
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It’s not a work of art, and nothing’s free
From dust or frays. (Did I just spy some glue?)
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
And now I wonder why you let it be
The thing that guests first spot when they walk through.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It stabs my eyes, though I am rarely pleased,
A story’s just a string from old to new.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It’s hard to tell if they’re playing tag,
or thrusting nectar-drunk love at each other—
mid-June attempts at getting it.
Maybe they’re fighting over first flowers—
legs twitching in hypoglycemic half-paralysis,
like the buzz of waking mid-vacation,
still dazed, muscles aching, but that stinger,
coiled stiff for the week.
Their terror-tails would end me,
or at least suspend me, breath held between
here and wherever histamine takes it.
I appreciate the bees, I really do,
their work, their faith in growing things.
But the anaphylactic risk of their existence
in relation to mine turns close proximity
into a kill-or-die situation:
all stabs and fury, and neither of us
wanting it to end that way.
Things are going great no problems at all
My world is terrific, I feel glad for the day
The sun is shining, and I notice the birds
They dive in for a taste of the cat food
I smile at their daring
A sharp pain stabs me through my heart
It feels like someone has speared my back
There is an invisible boa constrictor around my chest
Is this how death is?
I keep quiet
A day later I am exhausted, can barely move
There is a cyst and it is oozing
What the heck? The birds are still here
But I no longer see them or care
It is all about me; and my health
which I take for granted when it is good
It is bad now, and I am irritated.
Cursing the world
Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me? Why me?
The birds fly off, sensing my rage.
I thought I’d go too far away with you
Where our dream will be true
But one bullet shatters the flower
Which spreads the scent of love in the air
I thought I’d win one day the throne of God
Where our prayers are compiled a lot
But one bullet stabs the hands of the praying
Which embraces you as a true human being
I thought I’d spend thousands of autumnal fair
Where our unity will be a divine pair
But one bullet incarnates the pair a corpse flood
Which drives away the innocent fresh blood
I thought the rose would be our commutable heart
But the inhuman bullet makes it an imperialist dart
© Mahtab Bangalee
October 21, 2023
Chattogram
Oh, dear God, less than one year ago you took her...
his only sister, younger than he is...
his wound still heals...
heartache, still raw.
And now, a new knife stabs his sore and open wound...
his younger brother, fighting for his life,
now lays dependent on machines to live...
alive for now, but doomed so soon to say goodbye.
God, I beg, can you spare their pain...
let these brothers stay together?
Just two left now...
one, soon, alone.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: Fragmented Verse
Sponsor: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
Judged: 07/23/2018
Each breath she takes,
her heart aches,
Her love has left,
she feels bereft,
Precious lives lost,
dreams of a happy home tossed,
Days and nights spent weeping
without sleeping,
Alone in a throng,
she is not strong,
Smiling behind her tears,
whiling away her years,
With a pen and a book
in her favourite nook,
Amidst the overgrown vines,
her heart for her love pines,
Each step she takes,
her heart aches,
With memories left behind
by ties that forever bind,
Their deadly silence stabs her,
as loneliness grabs her,
She is no longer awake,
she dies each day living with heartache.