Long Vulnerability Poems
Long Vulnerability Poems. Below are the most popular long Vulnerability by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vulnerability poems by poem length and keyword.
Grief comes uninvited, like a marauder,
like a one man army charging,
he makes an unexpected onslaught.
A thief in the dark who comes stealthily,
without pausing to seek permission
and settles in the heart like an intruder
His stay is long and tedious.
He eats away our vitality,
sups on our vulnerability,
sucks our life sap and fattens on our gloom.
Like a tenant who hasn’t paid
a single dime as rent, he invites our wrath!
Even under threat, he would never vacate
It is at night, he revels
and makes the most fierce onslaught
He snubs out our sleep, disturbs our calm
Wide eyed, we have to watch
the nasty antics of this tyrant
He drives out all hope,
battles with our cheer,
evicts all positive vibes,
and invades the entire space.
Weaving sticky gossamer threads
to ensnare all happy thoughts
which come our way and like an ugly spider,
he arrogantly dwells in our heart!
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Sept. 11.2022
~ Placed First~
Pick a Title, Vol.32. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Written: September 8, 2026, for a contest Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
*************
I sip the syllables—salt, sweet, sharp—
tongue tasting the tremor of thought.
Ink breathes like incense,
smoke of meaning rising,
curling in the ear’s cathedral.
Eyes catch flicker—
letters leap, luminous,
a lantern’s lash across the dark.
The page becomes pulse,
a drumbeat of desire,
narrative arc arcing like lightning.
Fiction’s force is fierce—
it grips, it twists, it binds—
a locust-swarm of images
buzzing behind the brain.
Multimedia murmurs,
screens scream,
colors collide,
sound swells,
and the mind is malleable clay.
Yet vulnerability hums—
we bend, we break,
we follow the flame.
Charm of the speaker,
timber of tone,
gesture, glance,
the body’s music—
all sculpt belief.
Still, creativity carves resistance:
word as weapon,
verse as veil,
voice as vessel.
The poem presses palm to palm,
warmth in the hand,
whisper in the ear,
rose-red scent of memory,
taste of rain on lips.
And in that moment—
reader and writer entwined—
the world is remade
by rhythm, rhyme,
and the raw ache of being heard.
April 18 Praises to God Bible Meditations Based on 1Kings 18-20
Key Verse – 1Kings 18:24 And call ye on the name of your gods, and I will call on the name of the LORD: and the God that answereth by fire, let him be God. And all the people answered and said, It is well spoken.
PRAISE BE TO GOD WHO ANSWERS BY HIS FIERY POWER
Praise be to God for answering by His fiery power while we:
Fear Him, worshipping Him reverentially
Flee to His will for reconciliation
Follow His ways with rejoicing
Fuel our faith by His wise restoration
Fight against futility and folly through His Word responsibly
1Kings 19:7 Praise be to the Lord Who propels
our triumphant journey with His touch:
Commencing salvation-security along His purpose
Creating strength-seal with His power
Calling for service-sincerity in His presence
Commanding submission and surrender toward His plan
Cleansing sin-stains through His pardon
1Kings 20:28 Praise be to the Saviour for
letting us know Him, our Lord Who:
Defends us by His ministerial victory
Delivers us with His mercy from vulnerability
Despises our mischief and violations
Directs our meekness toward valour
Defies our might of vain value. Amen!
April 18, 2024
This vain wish to live longer, somewhere,
makes me struggle with my vulnerability
of having been born with the fear of dying...
and before that is accomplished: let me live!
I've been told, " It's not possible that time can freeze youth indefinitely,"
but that intricate illusion was too persistent and real;
this boy always believed it would have never faded...
now being sorrowful and old, I realize how untrue and contrived it was!
Be convivial and consume your time wisely,
don't hold the conviction that over-the-hill is the end;
you've gathered all the knowledge to survive another year,
and on your calendar mark every birthday and celebrate...
I will do the same believing that I'd continue walking in eternity
as when youth froze time to contradict an undeserved fate
without connoting wrong, but being congrous and fair...
oh, youth your concession has compensated me for that loss!
I should be miserable as anybody else...lamenting and lashing,
but what good it would do if not harm me and shorten these days?
I enjoy every moment that life gives me...being hopeful for more to come;
others cuss, slander and end life demolishing all they had built in their past!
I denote my achievements as milestones that everyone will remember,
and certainly I'll be sought after for the secrets my words will unfold;
and their purpose and extent are very conceivable to the scholar and reader...
not deploring the naive idea that time can freeze youth indefinitely.
I want the real Jesus
Not the one who appeases us.
I want the living God
Not this secular facade.
There’s some Friction
About the Crucifixion
It’s more than a benediction.
There is Accountability
And vulnerability
Which Leads one to a life of
Spiritual stability.
You can’t try to fly
When you’re living a lie
Injected by a media that worships
the Third Eye.
Only a fish out of water
Can tell it’s a new order.
Only those that pay attention
Can see its false protection.
Mind games rule the masses
It is time for you to grasp this.
Our music bleeds on innocent lives
We are forgetting Pollution has a price
Don’t fall asleep to all the signs
We are living in the end times.
By: Sabina Nicole
They say boys don’t cry.
They say it like a promise.
Like strength is stitched in our skin at birth
and weakness is something
you have to unzip your chest to find.
I was eight
when I learned that sadness had a gender.
That girls get tissues,
and boys get told to “tough it out.”
That scraped knees get band-aids,
but broken hearts?
Those just get buried under
“man up”
and “you’ll be fine.”
I was twelve
when my dad said,
“Stop acting like a girl.”
Like emotions were diseases
and I’d caught one.
So I stopped.
Stopped crying.
Stopped talking.
Stopped needing anything
that made me look soft.
Because being soft
felt like being disposable.
And you wonder why boys break things
before they break down?
Why fists meet walls before feelings meet words?
We are taught to bottle it up—
but no one tells you what happens
when the pressure hits the glass ceiling of your skull.
I walk hallways with a smile that’s a lie.
Teachers don’t ask.
Friends don’t see.
And the counselor?
Too busy with the loud kids,
the girls who cry pretty in bathrooms.
My silence doesn’t make a scene.
It just echoes.
Some nights I scream
into pillows
so I don’t have to apologize
for having a voice.
But no one sees bruises
when they’re on the inside.
No one asks
if you're okay
when your mask fits perfectly.
And I want to tell you—
depression wears cologne too.
Anxiety knows how to laugh at jokes.
Panic attacks can come
after touchdowns and straight A’s.
I want to scream:
Check on your boys.
Check on the ones who always say, “I’m good.”
Check on the ones whose humor hits too hard,
too fast,
like they’re trying to dodge their own thoughts.
Because we are drowning
in plain sight.
We are falling
but our hands look like fists,
so no one thinks to catch us.
We are breaking
in ways that look like silence.
And silence
doesn’t make noise
until it’s too late.
Vertical Sea
Arise horizons tell us what you see
Vertical rain comes on high wave conclusions adrift in mist
Fortunes waiting out on the sea for men who come in ships
So much rain came in from all directions in one instance
Sanity was questioned at a distance along with risk
Vertical rain broke portal windows with such force
Eighty mile winds crashed in as well
Distracted men at playing cards, drinking rum for fun
Now huddled in fear within the thin skin cabin
No one slept inside the dead of hour’s darkness
Troubles bounced up and down out there
Pirates in the past fumbled their rich existence down
A new crop of water warriors can be found to take their place
Doubloons are buried in dark quarter’s underwater world
Above and below deck, inundated with storm and fear
Between each plank the storm took out more men
No thick skinned seasoned soul could harness or hold on
No salty language sailor could be heard
Above the tumultuous storm
The fierce beast rolled in on angry nature’s back
With it, folding over fifty foot waves, came torrential rains
Which pounded heavy on the bow
Churned up rogue waters on the vulnerability of sea life
Nature itself turned on them in adept ferocity
In violence it flipped the ship
Showed contempt for every soul on board
With total disregard for life and limb
And complete indifference towards the sailors
The blackness, void of light, could not help these tyrannical conditions
The monstrous storm consumed more than the rain
It drank up men and drowned them
Others flew in all directions
Most of them broke necks, died before they hit the deck
Instantly killed, dragged into the cold dark depths as well
All steps were in the wrong direction, in favor of the waves
They could not even cower in the craft or say a prayer
The boat and men turned upside down
The ship had splintered into nothing and flew into the gale
Only three men remained, bobbing on the giant waves
Flapping their arms like molested chickens on the sea
Tossed in every direction but straight ahead
Rogue waves were in control, in hysterical rage and agitation
No one knew what happened to the crew
They were never seen again
I lost track of the last time
I whispered, “Thank you, Lord,”
and meant it
even for the smallest mercies
quietly unfolding around me.
But in Aichi,
fear sat beside me so closely
that gratitude returned
like a prayer I had forgotten.
This second part lives
between the breaking
and the becoming.
Part 1 and Part 3
were written as the storm moved
but this one is a glance backward,
a soft rewind
of the thoughts I never spoke,
the feelings that lingered
between each step.
Aichi was never the plan.
I wasn’t searching for myself.
Walking alone was never the intention
though it had always lived
quietly as a dream.
And somehow,
without permission,
without preparation,
life placed me there
exactly where I needed to be.
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
BEFORE A WORD IS ON MY TONGUE, BEHOLD, O LORD, YOU KNOW THE WHOLE OF IT PSALM 139:4
MY SPOUSE AND A FEW close friends have been known to finish my sentences
Before I do
Some could find this annoying
But I don’t
For it illustrates just how well these special people know
Understand me
It can be exhilarating to be known so well by another
But at times I find it scary too, because it can make me feel more vulnerable
If someone knows me well
Then they also know what hurts me
What causes my heart to ache
Presumably how to manipulate my emotion
We may not feel worthy of God’s attention or desire
It may seem scary, but God would never prey on our vulnerability
God Savors the persons we are
Persons formed in God’s own image and likeness
Readings
Gospel
Wisdom 1:1-7, Psalm 13:1-10
Luke 17:1-6
Form: