Long Uglier Poems
Long Uglier Poems. Below are the most popular long Uglier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Uglier poems by poem length and keyword.
The lure of untainted flower,
Its sweet perfume encased in a whorl.
Alas! That which I await is scarce.
This memory will be banished tomorrow.
Tomorrow ,
I must satisfy her.
My labour waits for her belly:
The weary days
The sun
The rains of my struggles
Bear fruit tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
She said, “I will come tomorrow”
Her many delays must end tomorrow
‘cos her quest for vanities are fully spent.
Our wedding shall be tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
Her lust shall be feted
Her feathers of courtship plucked!
The downs, I know, shall be not be rubied
But tomorrow we shall deceitfully walk to the altar.
Tomorrow.
I bid you, wait till tomorrow.
She goes home now to break her bond
With him that was in her dreams only yesterday.
I, shall wait till tomorrow
To make her drink from her fountain of lust.
Her secret desire of a ride to a far country
On her lover’s back, a wish not penny can grant.
Tomorrow.
I must nurture the wounds and scars of another
And regret I never made the first cut.
Yet, she must do it again as before.
But we shall start tomorrow.
Tomorrow,
She shall dance like a maiden untouched;
All her lovers in the pew,
Mocking my folly with unspoken memories of their voyages
And I, a victim of blemished womanhood,
Ready to fool the world in “unholy matrimony.”
Tomorrow,
When she parades foolishness for fashion
Then, call her not my wife.
When she fights on the street in rage and fury
Oh, call her not my wife.
When she slips into darkness to drink from the cup of a rival
Please, call her not my wife.
When the stench of her reputation chokes the neighborhood
Then, remember her not as my wife.
When she regales her mates with tall tales to my hurt
Please, call her not my wife,
When she wraps herself in fineries yet uglier than a mummy
Please, call her not my wife,
When godliness is exited and the fear of God abolished
Please, call her not my wife
Think no shame on me
Then, when she becomes a Matron over innocent children.
But, I must marry
Tomorrow
Be it for a day before I die.
They told me I was pretty for a black girl
But if that is the case
You want me to interpret that as being special
That out of every black girl
Im the exception
To your pre conceived perception
To how you view a black woman
The only way to take it
Is as an insult
Black women are beautiful
But your attitude isn't
And when you say I'm different
That's not a compliment
All it does is make me view you as the scum of the earth
I am not your curiosity
Your new flavour of the month
We are not toys
We won't play into your weird fetishism
We are human beings
Not dolls you can unclothe
Brownie points will not be given
By belittling other black women
Your curiosity will not be cured
We will not be your experiment
We know our worth
And we know what we deserve
We are not desperate enough
To the point where we allow you to be cruel to another black girl
We support each other
And we won't fight for your unwelcomed affection
You think because we are hated
By a majority of the world
That we would be insecure enough
To accept your empty gestures
Buy why would we be insecure
When the people who claim to hate and think that we are uglier
Seem to be obsessed with our culture
The ones who buy their looks to replicate us
The ones who wear the skin they claim to hate as a costume
So yeah we are the most hated
But our looks seem to be your favourite thing to wear
It is our little monthly my-parents-hated-me-the-most-contest
It starts after the third round of beers and is hilarious.
There are six of us and at least three should know better.
Winnie the whiner usually starts it for obvious reasons.
“I almost died at two and Mom said she wished I had.”
“My brother hit me in the face with a bat at four.”
“RULES,” the rest of remind her.
“My dad denied I was his.” Weird since she had his face.
“My mom called me idiot,stupid, and dummy.”
The rest of the nod, remembering her endearments for me.
“My seven siblings do not speak to me or claim me.”
“Doesn’t count,” “RULES!” We are ruthless about this.
Interrupting each other now, we get louder and uglier.
The best part of this contest happens as we head out.
The other people dining almost always stand and cheer.
At least they like us!
5/3/17
The world getting hungrier
Times getting uglier
And bloodier
Compared to animals, have people always been nuttier?
Needs growing
And greed showing
Far from easy going
Regardless of what you read and are knowing
Better keep going
Above and underneath the counter
The pursuit of power
Each and every second, minute and hour
Resources being sought out and devoured
Has it always been this way
Who is to say?
At a high frequency
Since the beginning so much secrecy
And not nearly enough decency
As the scales often tipped unevenly
Continually tilting
Near or far, above within and below any building
Who cares if it was thrilling
Too much senseless killing
It's beyond bone chilling
By: Dalton Ogletree
Dressed to impress, nails cleaned hair combed
shoes polished and wearing cologne
Everything in his mind rehearsed
but whatever he said come out for the worst
Did you like my big gas guzzling machine
My views are extreme green
You look even prettier today
Was I uglier then
Have you lost weight
I was always thin
He stumbles and fumbles with words to say
nothing is coming out the right way
The waiter brings bread to save the day
As she stares at him like he's on display
Poor boy keeps sounding stupid
I like a juicy steak
I am a vegan
My high school was named Reagan
I graduated from Obama
You look a lot like your mama
She is my step mother
Finally the waiter brings their meals
the evening has a cool cool chill
Poor boy keeps sounding stupid
I root for the Sooners
Orange I bleed
I go to church
I don't see the need
asking for the check
as she walks out to leave
The evening a bomb
everything wrong
He goes back to the table to leave a tip
A waitress spills soup on him as she trips
So sorry that shirt looks new
He smiles as he says Don't I know you
She's off the clock and they have a chat
They were childhood friends that went way back
Everything he said was met with her smile
as the evening dwindle and the morning rosed
They agree to date and so it goes
Maybe just maybe it wasn't him
sounding stupid back then.
People always think one man can burn the whole world down by himself.
They see a president pacing around the Oval Office like some drunken landlord with the keys to every apartment in the building, ready to shut off the heat or smash the pipes just because he’s in a mood.
But that isn’t how this broken-down machine of a country works.
Not even close.
The truth is uglier and funnier than the fear:
this place is so tangled with rules, courts, committees, subcommittees, and men in cheap suits who love procedure more than people, that no one—saint or tyrant—gets to steer the whole thing.
You can try.
Sure.
You can grab the wheel, kick the dashboard, scream until the veins in your neck look like busted guitar strings.
But the car keeps drifting the way the engineers designed it two hundred fifty years ago.
People worry the president will torch Social Security, Medicare, the scraps of dignity we cling to.
But those old programs are built like concrete bunkers—too many locks, too many laws, too many ghosts of past congresses still rattling around in them.
He can swing a hammer, maybe loosen a few bricks, but the whole wall won’t fall.
Not in a few months.
Not with half the country watching, lawyers circling like buzzards, and judges ready to slap his hand like a mother tired of her kid poking the electrical socket.
What he can do—what any of them can do—is make noise.
Kick up dust.
Scare the hell out of people.
Write some order on fancy paper and wave it around for the cameras, knowing the next guy will tear it up like junk mail.
That’s the trick: the damage that feels permanent is usually temporary, and the damage that’s permanent usually took decades to build, long before anyone noticed.
So yeah, a president can throw a fit on his way out the door.
He can shove over chairs and slam the drawers.
But the house stays standing.
The plumbing still runs.
The old programs limp on like grizzled veterans who’ve seen worse than one man with a grudge.
If this country falls, it won’t be because of one president—it’ll be because the whole damn circus finally collapsed under the weight of its own noise.
Until then, the machine grinds on.
In the early 80's I was a scary lady.
Dressed up in the tattered clothes
of the wicked witch in my place.
I had an ugly rubber mask with
a bad eye and a big wart on the nose
Really was a hideously ugly face
I'd add more things to it with time
For ten long years I added everything.
I had the long flowing tattered skirt
A crooked witches hat bent at the top
Every year it'd keep on winning
I had spiders of all sizes on my shirt
Then rubber rats pinned onto my arm
and on both of my shoulders as well
I perfected my witches cackle and laugh
Those that knew me were not afraid
I had the others under my spell
It was the perfect personification to have.
I'd always walk through the haunted houses
To see how the other witches were dressed.
The witches or warlocks were frozen and mute
Wondering if I was part of their crew
I really miss those days I have to confess
I'd have to say it was everything except cute.
© Bonnie J Hollywood-Cutts, a month ago
I wish I had a picture to show how much I accumulated and increased the look and realistic motions and actions my witches's life was like. The uglier and more frigthening it was for others to see the happier I became. I gave it to someone when I had my baby as it scared her so much. but now I wish I could recreate it perfectly. Though I've never seen a mask like it again
The young generation shouts
“we don’t have a navel because we are descended from above.”
We have no way to measure their eccentric conduct
with an ordinary scale, they drink water from a toilet bowl,
they step on a wall to urinate face down and nibble their own flesh burnt under the scorching sun,
they shout mother down
who watches them worrisomely with great care;
they set against their father who reproves their mischievous behavior.
However, the sisters of those audacious rascals have navels,
they wear sleeveless slip-ons because they cannot afford
neither sleeves nor shoulder straps,
their lower garments are time worn jeans
the miners discarded,
its lower parts are gone above the knees
and holes here and there.
They stroll the shopping mall licking ice cream
swaying from left to right and right to left
exposing their navels. The rascals wowed
peeping at their navels, they jump out from the alleys
and admire their sisters’ graceful walking figure;
then, they say “if I have a navel,
I should have a home to return like the others,”
though they always assert uglier is fairer
and crooked is straight.
I suppose probably they have a body temperature
like all others, you and me.
A Klingon Love Poem
(In Klingon and English)
tlhIngan bang bom tlhab
(pa' tlhIngan 'ej English Hol)
tugh mate beast qem jIH
flesh, cobalt jIb tear rip
metallic jeD rip qIj vo' DapIHchugh
ghaH ghob'e' nasty, Hegh mInDu' qul
Hurgh qab leathery
uglier Dunmo' tay embrace
dungeons Hurgh foreplay yInISQo' maHvaD
DeSDu' muSHa'ghach objects hurling jej
ravDaq pound, lojmIt pach maH
bey HoS jachpu'DI' DeSDu' morg maS
roar rur heavenly ghe''or Qo'noS vergh
jaQ neH rIQ qet bangwI'
Dub inflicted Hoch latlhpu'
rol taj jej taj
'ej HIv Ho' sharper
'Iw 'uQ'a' Hoch latlhpu' maH
ghob wej qa''a''e' pemHov lust
A Klingon Love Poem
(In Klingon and English)
Bring me a female mating beast
To pound her flesh, to tear her cobalt hair
Rip the thick metallic black from the head
She must be nasty, with fire in the eyes for death
A dark leathery face
The uglier the better for the ritual embrace
Let us foreplay in dungeons dark
Hurling sharp objects at love
We will scorch the floors, claw the doors
Howl out loud at the moons of Morg
Roar like heavenly hell on Kronos shores
My love runs deep in the wounds
Inflicted on each others backs
With razor sharp knives
And sharper teeth attacks
We will feast on each others blood
Do battle till the sun comes up with lust
head heavy
in hands
squeezing pounding temples
trapped in a trance
seated in this place
of emptiness and despair
the place that has welcomed
all of my fears and fractures
my heart pounds erratically
my eyes swollen and shot
a hypnotic gaze
into the somber gray
stone tile floor
that I’m sure
is hiding the demons
I have chosen to ignore
the ventilation fan
is loud and deafening
please stop, please stop
for God’s sake!
the churning acid
arouses anxiety in my angry pit
my blurry awakening shameful face
is exposed and shunned
a fading illusion
of my demand
that I’ve had enough
I’m finally done
what does this vicious cycle
have in store
just like yesterdays
just like tomorrows
“bite the hair”
the temptation to escape
always near
addiction is a seductive liar
that manipulates and deceives
not willing to seek restraint
until every sense of self-worth
is destroyed and torched in fire
my mind twists painfully
in a chaotic frenzy
memories that won’t decompose
a persistent clamor
reliving the bowels
of a drained and disappointed past
the blews persist,
unyielding in their grip
a lifetime,
of dark and ugly people
of dark and ugly decisions
mind drifts,
to even darker uglier thoughts