Long Statement Poems
Long Statement Poems. Below are the most popular long Statement by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Statement poems by poem length and keyword.
Black Lives Matter is a statement of love not statement of hate
So, please erase the confusion from your face
But they can't hear because they're too busy spraying mace in my face
They keep yelling: s who needs them, nigga please, black boy black girl you don't belong
Today I read murder s on a random wall
Someone tried to spray paint over it, but the hate was still legible
They try to sweep racism under the rug, but the people living in that house still keep the hate at their side at all times
Taking lives at all times, so much so it has become a full-time job, and they love overtime
Humans are not animals but sometimes I wish black people had 9 lives like a cat
Then maybe one of those we could live out who we were meant to be
Or maybe we could be a dog, you heard the cops call us treats,
Right?
Justice where has it gone, people will say it's just the times
But now it's 2020 and Justice is more like just them all the time
It's not fair, it's not right, it's not love, and to everyone who gets hurt standing up for the air being sucked out of our bodies continue to stay ten toes down
Because we is a selfish term in America
Freedom is a selective term in America
The grey line takes up most of the space in America
Right is looked at as wrong in America, and some still choose to ignore the true colors of America
Red is my blood stolen from the boys in blue, that sadly can be defined as a white American most of the time
The red should really symbolize the fire raging from this hell on earth
That makes the world blue, well some of us
White culture eating white cake from the recipes of slaves
Wanting to experience different things
Wanting to participate in our lifestyle
Stealing traditions
Without the ritualistic red dot constantly pointed at their back
But when a black person wants more for themselves, they have to start with a wall against their back
While carrying the cross their ancestors hung from
While trying to make change, positive change should not be as hard as looking for a dropped charge
Awareness and action is the key, but there are many doors to unlock until Justice can start to have the appearance of a just world
We can be more, we can do better, when we start to believe that no one is better
We are all equals, this is not algebra its addition
love + human=unity not hate, it's simple
p.s. I'm still praying...
I seek not to be a presence. Forces beyond my control dictate the interactions I will have with those who come across my path. These forces disturb me in ways that I cannot understand, yet I react to them with efficiency.
Subtlety is not one of my traits. Even now, I am poised to move in the direction to which I am called. It is a direction that could have great impact. Although I may waver in the course set before me, I am nonetheless committed until another force impedes me.
On the path I seek, I can see farther than one can imagine. Even though I only have one eye, it is an eye that is clear, an eye that makes a statement. You would think that having only one eye, any spinning and turning I do would make me extremely dizzy. Nay, say I, I move ahead on the path I seek.
On course, on time, and always considering my wall. It is not a wall to jump over, or to keep me from something or someone. Instead, it is everything and everyone else who would need or want to have a wall equivalent to mine. Theirs would be a wall to keep me from them.
The path I seek can be strewn with objects that tend to slow me down. Nonetheless, I struggle against them, and keep surging forward. I depend on my own wrath and fury to keep me moving ever closer to my stated purpose, whatever it may be. At some point, I know I will lose all ability to continue down the path I seek.
Along the path I seek, I watch events unfold before me with my one eye. It is an eye that, while surrounded with moisture, does not blink, shows little mercy, and does not cry. It does not cry even as my wall begins to crumble. The crying is only left to those dear beings I leave behind along my path.
I wish I could feel the lives I touch but, the harsh truth is, I have no feelings. I am a creation that will never know what a feeling is. And thus, no love, no hate, no joy, no sadness will stay me from the path I seek.
Alas, my wrath and fury are destined to die a slow death as I continue along the path I seek. I will not be missed, but I may be remembered. I will surely be cursed and called a monster.
And before my eye finally sleeps, I get one last peek at where I have been.
Still, I cannot cry over the destruction and anguish I have wrought during my passing. I only know that I will come this way again, because that is what hurricanes do along the paths they seek.
END
My grandparents lived on farms – both sides of my family.
My mother’s parents and my father’s parents.
Overalls and button down shirts with pockets
Work boots for grandpas
Except my single grandpa did get dressed up fancy
For Saturday night dancing with his girlfriend.
He smelled wonderful too, wore a lariat with a turquoise stone
Shined his shoes as if he was going to church
My maternal grandmother was the only one I knew.
She wore a navy dress with large white polka dots
When we had weddings or funerals, and low heel shoes
The rest of the time I remember her wearing aprons over dresses
My mother was the first woman I saw who wore pants.
She preferred them to dresses, and took to polyester in a big way.
Remember the pantsuits of the seventies? I swear she invented those.
Matching tunics with wide legged pants.
My father wore plaid shirts or camouflage jackets
Unless he was going to work; then he wore a dark suit.
He was a salesman with a skinny tie.
He always looked crisp and clean; mom used starch on his clothes.
My style was wide bell bottom blue jeans that we called hip huggers.
When I was younger, and tops that looked maternity in the seventies.
This was the real style which horrified me in 1974, as I had to wear these blousy tops two years in a row
because I had a baby at twenty and twenty-one.
My new style is comfort. I am sixty-eight. I wear tennis shoes.
Elastic waists, soft clothes that are not tight, I love feeling free.
My husband is the same way – comfort clothes, elastic waists.
We like eating tasty foods; no blue jeans for us now.
We have three children. They dress according to their lives.
One has six children, but she dresses fancy and so do they.
Another has no children, she’s a professional. She dresses in suits.
Third child alternates between casual and fancy; working mom of three.
Our grandchildren are eclectic fashion displayers also.
Super controlled grandchildren wear traditional clothing,
Approved by mom or they do not leave the house.
The ones who are wild like our middle daughter have pink and blue hair.
I see dresses that are too short - the same as I wore in middle school.
I see pants that are too tight on boys, like we saw in the eighties.
I see boots not as cute as Nancy Sinatras or or go-go-boots.
Masks are the new fashion statement for the younger generation sadly.
Am I invisible?
No, I’m not.
Sometimes I feel like I am.
Sometimes I wish I was.
But deep down I know I’m not.
Even if it was my deepest desire,
I’m certain it’d ever come true.
In this house,
I may not be invisible,
But my feelings definitely are.
Like they’re hovering,
far away from my body.
Where my family can’t see.
I soak in the words they preach,
When I become the outlet for sadness, anger, and grief.
My body moves mindlessly as
I comfort them.
Each and every person.
Even though it is never returned.
My brain taps restlessly at my skull,
Begging me to listen,
Begging me to acknowledge the twinge in my chest,
the tears building up in my eyes.
But I can’t.
I cant.
I lay alone in this bed,
Staring into the darkness,
Wondering why noone cares.
Shouldn’t I get some compensation?
Don’t I deserve something back?
Aren’t my kind words,
My selfless actions,
Deserving of something,
More?
I’m told to “keep it together.”
But why me?
Because I am stronger than them?
more mature?
more understanding?
And yet I am so young.
Can my heart keep beating,
With this many wounds?
My rib cage is torn open,
blood leaks from my chest,
dark crimson stains the world
around me,
and yet I still ask,
“Are you okay?”
Even if it is my life,
I will offer it to them,
For it bears no importance to me.
Surrounded by these people,
The ones I call ‘family’,
I am a counsellor, for all ages.
I wonder where I store it all,
All the trauma -
That’s been passed down to me,
Like a secret ingredient,
Measured by the gods.
A treasure to keep safe.
And I lock it all away.
Will I ever escape this?
Am I always to be seen as just another diary to dump words in?
Someone who will drink up the sorrow,
From her very household,
Just to prevent a flood?
When will this torture end?
I know I love them,
There is no denying that statement.
But I no longer wish to walk around with the label “therapist” stamped on my back.
Don’t you see the scales above my head?
Dangerously tilting,
About to fall?
I feel like sometime soon,
The bolts will loosen,
And all will fall apart.
I am breaking into pieces,
cracks appearing with each trauma untold.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t here,
I wish when they saw me,
I was seen for conversation - normal ones.
And sometimes I wish I was invisible,
Or maybe not even here at all.
The mind is a womb
Copulate it
Let the semen of reason
Part the legs of its cervix
And you will see
When moth struggles before its born
The power of its dreams for flight
Words are eggs, you know
Virginal eggs,
I saw him hatch them into bricks
Of ideas that he could carve
Like an Edna exhibit
All copulation must spontaneous
A true gentleman has that gift
Not to force his feelings
On his betrothed
He was also scholar, you know
A sort of poet
That prefer metaphors to the conflict
Of chisel and wood
He had such a mastery of the rhetoric
I mean he understood them better than us
For he did not only speak like them
But spoke their strategy better than them
I sometimes wondered how he knew himself
Apart.
Its sort of seemed ironic
That he did have the anger that Fanon composed
Unless wit is a subtle part of it
May be environment is such a part of it
The cool, I mean
We say that about Manchesterians
Roxborough,
If it could produce the soldier-scholar
Could not have produced just a little fire
Even for the cremation of his brother, Roy
Perhaps it was the mix blood ...
Busta said that his mother was Taino
I do not understand is who mixed them though
There is an overt statement of force to be made
A rape scrubbed from the memory
For how could one half of hm
Become so invisible ...
The mission I mean.
I must rule
More than wood, and more
Than water
For my destiny
Is more than what men may leech
So I am not exploited
I am killed for this robbery
And here I am left
A dead man on a throne
Here I am
Shrouded with self government
And staring into the empty eyes
Of children
So why do I love him then
Was it alone because my father
Fashioned my world for me
Gave me this icon
For proximity the barbarians
Who snatched my mother
Washing her white linen one day
From the sweet river
Do not take that thought to the bank
Where my children play
This man deserves his accolade
If only for taking blindness from my mind
If only for letting me know
The chain had never rattled their
And even in their own words
I could look at the world
And ask "why not?"
He gave me a ladder to my education
That was some gift,
Quite the best of all I am given
O it so beautiful to copulate the mind
Or hold hands through the annals
And see this Manley,
This little fountain of great ambition
Flowing at my lips.
A casualty of a personality similarity, apparently,
though it's not apparent to me,
maybe in a parallel reality with unparalleled insanity.
My motto is true individuality breeds pure originality,
I hate monos I do but inconsistency prevents rhyme simplicity.
However, I endeavour to be quite clever,
and mix this rhyme with a talent that only said hello
and let itself be known when I sat all on my own
and met my lowest low and felt all was an unknown.
After I boycotted social events
and my siblings kept a distance
through a transition to clearance
and all was different but for my parents.
When I could of drank and walked around violent
or gone back to cannabis as a daily requirement,
but I vented in silence and sat and wrote a sentence
to then rhyme it in an instant and express a cruel incident,
all done with rational thought and I felt happy with the result.
I found a talent up my sleeve
better than what I ever believed,
assured by my second poem called "Believe",
13 months on there are 400 more to read.
I've covered a whole range of topics,
writes of stupid silly to writes of serious logic,
but lyrical writes enabled
a plastic Eminem wannabe label
as though I'm unable to be a creative individual,
and so slated for not being an original.
It seems that Trim Shady alias will stay with us
and I'll seem ridiculous but the influence
that became the fake appearance will see a disappearance,
I'm Nicholas or Trim I don't initial my title
I'm not trying to be like Marshall whom is unrivalled.
I'll do it my own way with individuality,
knowing that alter ego is the only reason you see a similarity,
but I'll make you see I'm a singularity,
a personality out to become a familiarity.
Though I've balanced my talents over a vast distance using
rhyme to reference these events it makes no difference to opinions,
yet I stay driven because I was influenced by Winston and his words to the wars winning.
Let's be clear Churchill caught my ear like Slim and I listened in awe to him when he said "Never Give In",
so if the world goes silent I'll start to sing,
if you attack me I'll whack you,
if you distract me I'll trap you,
if you perceive me as fake
I'll make you retract that statement with haste.
I'm evolution at play,
changing and adapting,
but I'll always do it my way.
Where‘s The Bull?
A few years ago at the close of the morning worship service in the lobby of our church, a young teen greeted me with the words, “How are you doing Mr. Curtis?” My reply to him at the time was, “I’m hanging in there.” This was a time when the nation’s economy was in disarray, and my personal finances were not much better. Some weeks later I saw him again in the same area of the lobby, and he greeted me with the words, “Hi Mr. Curtis, are you still hanging in there?”. I almost answered him in the same manner as before, because things had not really gotten any better. However, I caught myself and replied by saying, “No, I’m not hanging in there. I have the bull by the horns, and he’s going down”.
I believe that the 'Bull statement' triggered something inside of me that made a big difference in the future outcome for my life and circumstances. No, my belief system did not change, but a “God Moment” came to the front and overpowered me to overcome any attitude of doubt or negativity that had existed in my spirit. A fresh fire was kindled, and a ‘knowing’ within me was born that in essence said to me that I did not have to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in’ there for dear life. The fresh fire enabled me to stop hanging on to the tail of the bull to be slung about and around wherever the bull desired.
The bulls of life are always on the loose, and bulls will do what bulls do. We must decide and take courage to do what Christians do. Our bulls of life will never go down as long as we are fighting at the tail by hanging on. It is when we take on the bull by his horns that we are enabled to bring him to the ground.
At the time of the young man’s question, we were in a season of life unlike any we had faced before. The seasons of the year can be defined and generally described, but they are never the same. We know that they are coming and going all the time, but we never know the character and the magnitude of their impact. So is the case with the seasons of our lives.
So. What is your bull’s name today? Where is he, and where are you positioned in relation to the bull’s movements? The bull’s movements are always strong and are designed to destroy us. We must not be content with simply hanging on for survival. Because God is with me, I can trust him in the stormy seasons of my life.
10022014 cj PS
The Lie
I am an insect waiting to be squashed!
I stare hard at the ground
as if fascinated, enthralled by it
while, above, eyes of cold-cobalt
wait to gouge and burrow out
any self-belief that might still remain.
“WELL?”
It always starts with that unsettling word.
Ironic as ‘well’ it certainly is not.
“COME ON!! I haven’t got all day!”
The next sharpened remark; his checkmate,
and the denouement usual swiftly follows.
I try to speak but my weighted words
require a wheelbarrow to carry them out.
I am snagged, on the jag, of repeated criticism
which over the years has shrunken me;
diluting my beleaguered confidence.
Most of my childhood years I understood
and welcomed the fluctuations of emotion
however the grammar and punctuation
of every day skirmishes of family life:
the questions marks, the exclamations, the..... ellipses
were rules, restrictions that became impossible to follow.
So here, once again, stands my father’s temper
attempting to confront nay dominate me.
At this point, if my body had consented,
I would have galloped over the nearest horizon
however all my moving parts had gathered together,
loitering, on a corner, spreading rumours and gossip
that had rendered me rigid and immobile!
My only escape, my bolt for freedom, lies… in the lie.
Yes, an untruth, that had lain in the top shelf
of my mind for many troubled days,
fermenting in its own insidious juices.
Now sliding treacherously from the corner of my mouth,
this worded assassin, homes ruthlessly on its target
…my firework of a father.
Suddenly his face tightens, a thought frightens,
his rigid body a jolt of electricity,
as disbelief snakes its way into his thinking.
His anger reddens, his reasoning darkens
and his fists…..boulder.
But the lie has lain down beside him
fabricating disappointment, bewilderment, distrust
deep into the windows of his eyes.. then...much deeper.
Gradually I turn the key in the ignition of my pride
carefully closing my hands, knitting my fingers,
creating a statement of both prayer and defiance.
Later a thought dangles in a corner of my mind,
a consideration, a contemplation of how far the lie
will layer down into my father’s subconscious
before he understands that the lie is a…
Trojan horse carrying … the truth!
Ian Souter
I am dreaming the past
Past when KBC was the only station
Each morning started with the anthem of the nation
We had to know your intention
Before saying anything through the station
Each anchor had a level of education
While talent was just an addition
Any deviation
Captured the important attention
Of the head of the nation
Dreaming my past
Is all I want to do last
Streams of dreams I rather forget fast
Like dreams from my father
That choices have consequences
A grammatical sentence that became our sentence
Is every correctly stated statement correct?
This kind that litters my mind
Making me bitter
Tearing my heart into litres of tears
These dreams make me shy
Shy to try mention my name
My name that brings me shame
Shame I cant tame
Cant tame because my mind is lame
Tell me why my kind cant cry
When all I dream are tongues of fire
From gangs on hire
With orders from higher
Higher rot that burns like fire.
Dreaming that I cant have money in my pocket
Without getting something in their jacket
Vampires so scary
Scattered in my neighborhood
Thirsty for the last drop of my blood
Limiting my limitless potential
Potential so essential
For resource mobilization
With equal allocation not hurting expectation
For relocation before suffocation.
Dreams to revitalize my generation
A possible solution for this situation
In transformation of my nation
To grow without corruption
That is like sugar
Sweeter it becomes
And disaster it welcomes
But I dare dreams
Of peaceful elections
An end to preventable infections
Through certified injections
And an education without leakage
As a privilege
For everyone in my village
Laying my head on the pillow
Feels like my heart becomes hollow
From the beams of dreams that follow
Makes me want to jump from the window
And fall on the ground so low
Flickering pain into my bone marrow
Afraid it could happen again on the morrow
What do you see in your dreams?
Streams of dreams that my head cant keep
Make me wish for beams of dreams to turn the leaf
Of people who have a resolve and a belief
That we are better together
And we need each other
Without a bother
Of clannism
Of tribalism
Of racism
But a nation of inclusion
By implementation of all legislation
In word and spirit
Envisioned in our constitution
That beams our dream.
(22) And the pangs of childbirth drove her unto the trunk of the palm-tree. She said: Oh, would that I had died ere this and had become a thing of naught, forgotten! (23) Then (one) cried unto her from below her, saying: Grieve not! Thy Lord hath placed a rivulet beneath thee, (24) And shake the trunk of the palm-tree toward thee, thou wilt cause ripe dates to fall upon thee. (25) So eat and drink and be consoled. And if thou meetest any mortal, say: Lo! I have vowed a fast unto the Beneficent, and may not speak this day to any mortal. (26) Then she brought him to her own folk, carrying him. They said: O Mary! Thou hast come with an amazing thing. (27) O sister of Aaron! Thy father was not a wicked man nor was thy mother a harlot. (28) Then she pointed to him. They said: How can we talk to one who is in the cradle, a young boy? (29) He spake: Lo! I am the slave of Allah. He hath given me the Scripture and hath appointed me a Prophet, (30) And hath made me blessed wheresoever I may be, and hath enjoined upon me prayer and almsgiving so long as I remain alive, (31) And (hath made me) dutiful toward her who bore me, and hath not made me arrogant, unblest. (32) Peace on me the day I was born, and the day I die, and the day I shall be raised alive! (33) Such was Jesus, son of Mary: (this is) a statement of the truth concerning which they doubt. (34) It befitteth not (the Majesty of) Allah that He should take unto Himself a son. Glory be to Him! When He decreeth a thing, He saith unto it only: Be! and it is. (35) And lo! Allah is my Lord and your Lord. So serve Him. That is the right path. (36)The sects among them differ: but woe unto the disbelievers from the meeting of an awful Day. (37) How well they hear and see and hear them on the Day they come unto Us! yet the evil-doers are to-day in error manifest. (38) And warn them of the Day of anguish when the case hath been decided. Now they are in a state of carelessness, and they believe not. (39) Lo! We Only, We inherit the earth and all who are thereon, and unto Us they are returned. (40) And make mention (O Muhammad) in the Scripture of Abraham. Lo! he was a saint, a prophet. (41)When he said unto his father: O my father! Why worshippest thou that which heareth not nor seeth, nor can in aught avail thee?
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