Long Vulnerable Poems
Long Vulnerable Poems. Below are the most popular long Vulnerable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vulnerable poems by poem length and keyword.
As a soul in love ? i live in two worlds
My mind and soul are at war like the two gods
Who seek to destroy each other without thinking of the odds
Just to become the Lord of the Lords
I know and believe i am in love
But why do i feel there is no love
In one day all feels amazing and consecrated
But in another everything feels degrading and unprotected
Is this a feeling of a loving doubt
Or i do not know what I am talking about
And i am allowing my doubt
To tell me what I am about
Why do i allow the fear of no love
To destroy my true love
Which can be compared to no love
Even if it is as beautiful as a dove
But since i have no might
To get into the heart
And pull what is under the mat
I am still vulnerable to the loving doubt illness
be strong and stoic if you will
but life is lonely high in a tower
where winds howl cold and bitter
often the fog grows so dense
that emptiness is tangible
and silence overwhelming
time is no one’s fool
and distance does not
make the heart grow fonder
value those bonds that make you human
but know you can’t connect unless
you open wide the doors
so speak your mind and tell it like it is
let your heart finally have its voice
you’ll feel all weight dissipate
be wise and know who you can trust
allow yourself a side that’s vulnerable
that’s when you’ll see people’s true colours
so stand tall and don’t you hesitate
to shout out and always tell it like it is
AP: 3rd place 2022
Crystalline Winter Hollow
A camp fire against solid hollow black
Holds the cold and limited visibility
Hours come born without warning
Near to night, wild on the snow storm
A dim light draws us home vulnerable
It is a dot in the distance
Illusions of fireplace and warmth
A hunt for life between each snowflake
Moving on as the snow deepens under foot
Each step is sunken treasure subaqueous submerged
Cold and water take their risk in winters grip
The lake may not take the weight of passage
Camp fire is a long way off now
So is that dot of light called home
Frozen images are all that’s left
Hidden there on the distance, crystalline alone
In the quiet hum of the café, beneath the dim, flickering lights,
The Poet sat, a relic of past ambitions, his soul adrift in the sea of his thoughts.
The Muse, with gentle and understanding eyes, brought him his coffee,
Her gaze, a fleeting touch of divinity amid the cold machinery of life.
Her kindness, a fragile thread in the tapestry of his existence,
A momentary glimmer in the shadows that swirled within him.
Life, he mused, was a relentless dance with troubles,
An endless waltz where every step led to another snare.
He had understood this truth, not from books or sages,
But from the raw, unfiltered experience of living,
From the grind of daily monotony, the suffocating embrace of routine.
Forty-eight years, and he was weary — a deep weariness that crushed his soul.
The poetic pursuit, once a ladder to transcendence, now a prison of words and silence,
Each verse, a reminder of deception, each stanza, a cage for his spirit.
The thrill of secret inspirations, once intoxicating, now a bitter aftertaste,
The readings, the celebrations, mere masks for the emptiness within,
Every accolade for every poem, a shackle that bound him tighter.
He had walked away, seeking freedom in the void,
But found that nothingness had its own weight,
An invisible burden that crushed him just as surely.
Isolation had come, a severing of ties that left him adrift,
And melancholy, a temporary solace, soon became another chain.
The Poet sipped his coffee, the warmth a fleeting comfort,
And reflected on the roads he had traveled, the choices he had made.
In his mind, the dream of a gentler path, a middle way,
Where neither the hustle nor the destitution reigned,
But such a road seemed an illusion, a phantom in the mist.
So here he sat, between the past and an uncertain future,
A soul stripped of pretense, raw and vulnerable,
Seeking meaning in the simple act of drinking coffee,
The Muse's kindness, a balm for his wounded soul,
Her eyes a reminder that even in the depths of despair,
Divinity could still shine through, a beacon in the night.
I find it not right
nor sustainably left,
snapped the poet,
that sainted soldiers claimed healthy transitions
toward divinely rapturous peace
to promote principles of death
by deliberate
degenerate design.
I could not reasonably interpret good news
win-God/win-humanity scripture stories
designed for win/lose inhumane
unredeemed
heroic fight makes Earth all zero-balanced right
patriotic players.
Neither philosophers
nor politicians
nor parasites
nor predators
could legitimately inscribe
and thereby capture and commodify
Natural Law
to justify killing each
Eco-Other
which, unreasoning,
feels distinctly unnatural
and betrays principled cause/effect order,
neither promoting liberty toward healthy naturality
nor security from too wealthy
self-satisfied non-spirituality
for individuals
families
communities
residuals
tribes
transgenderals
cultures
nations
generals
species of natural ordered pasts,
spirited futures,
co-presently remembered,
designed by healthy recombinant
transubstantiating
meta-morphic intent.
Nor is it OK for real-world multicultural experience
to whisper God's sacred transcendent
omnipotent mercy
to support
and reason
and negotiate for just wars
against this actual everyday private humanity
of one interdependently public
transparently vulnerable messianic body,
a cooperatively-owned sacrificial servant
for Earth's more polyculturally robust life,
not monocultural
Death
which feels like sacrilege against any divine Creator's
regenerative potential
and/or original intent,
omnipotent resilience,
omniscient resonance,
omnipresent restorative justice
justifying win/win/win/win...
Peace
which cannot be reasonably used
to justify deliberate dissonant degenerativity,
nor to sanctify desecration.
A throbbing heart moistens cornea
worries of the mind puffs a face
a dripping nose is most ugly
vulnerable spirits cling to bodies
A cave is dark all day long
Rains make nights darker
men can dance in darkness
but who notes the music?
The musician dreads sunshine
the cave will remain his kingdom
so longs as he makes every note sweet
with promise and hope of a bright dawn
A promise builds hope
swirl of dance prepares soul for ejaculation
of a confetti of spirit, new cave, green tune
a bonfire to rival the yellow shy ball
The cruel nimbus breaks its waters
The caveman retreats like a tortoise
for the sun has aborted its rays
No music today
The hope maker is away
to sweeten his notes with money
Only if the caveman sweetens his dance
with honey...
When you are a widow
They look at you kinda strange,
Initially sympathetic
From any distance-range.
They often don’t come back
Unless you are real rich
Their presumptions carry on;
Assuming you're a witch.
Funny how they make you feel,
They once were warm and friendly,
But now they think you need support
Or a supplementary.
Always seemed to click with them
Though now a foreign language,
Making you feel miserable
And all and all just anguish.
Some need to know more and more;
Extracting information
You’re honest, they’re astonished
With ghastly devastation.
Vulnerable and muddled
From heart break tragedy,
They make you feel so awkward
With incapacity.
When you are a widow
They look at you kinda strange,
Tell them you’re a widow and
Watch how they all change…
Or
Maybe keep the ring on,
For a year or five or ten…
Never thought when vows were made-
I'd be thinking ‘when’...
I can't breathe
When I see humans defending
Their meaningless arrogance,
Torturing the vulnerable
With their destructive powers
Merely to be able to appoint themselves
As the supposed winners!
I can't breathe
When I read of animals or even humans
Being killed in cruel ways
Either by being fed with explosives
Or by being raped at immature ages
Thereby making of life on Earth
A real tragedy, more so,
Since, the perpetrators
Are none other than humans themselves!
I can't breathe
Whether am on land or in chin deep waters
As the dirt amassed
Is suffocating me
Being reflected in the eyes of those
Who sneer at me
Mocking my questionings and my purity
And spitting at me venom, potent enough
To have me shed tears of blood!
I can't breathe, and
Neither can Earth
Nor can the Gods
What was initially sculpted to be a fallen Heaven
Has turned out to be filthier
Than Hell
Even if the same essence animates us all,
The same blood runs through us all
And our bodies react the same
When faced either with the new virus
Or with the whims of Death!
I can't breathe
Divided we are, each pretentiously standing
On the lines that ground us to those
Who are like us,
But, each of us, hiding in our hearts,
The monster of Selfishness, ready to
Kill and maim those who hinder us on
Our paths!
I can't breathe
But I can join my hands
And pray
To ask that the Gods
Open their eyes and allow us all
Some means to save our souls!
Back in my fading youth,
when teenage peers
monopolized my only monotheistic worldview
we trusted
to emerge with matriarchal Beauty health
and patriarchal Handsome wealth,
I learned to speak,
at least in public,
as if I were omnipresently heard
by my gracious GrandMother
When we were both sharing
our best GoldenRule win/win day
And not our worst win/lose day
veering angry
and/or afraid
into another traumatizing lose/lose nightmare
of defiantly oppositional
and claustrophobic
overpowering disorder
On my felt repressive portion
and, on her sacred Elder part,
"Trying to talk some sense
into your empty head."
Now, at the other
more grandmotherly
end of this long
emerging communion narrative,
I listen to sacred MotherEarth
before speaking
within Her sacred omniscient
indigenous wisdom hearing
As transgenerationally transparent
enlightened
and ecowomanist vulnerable
co-empowering
As win/win ego/ecosystemically possible
on this cooperatively co-invested best
GoldenRule day
Less perniciously haunted
by dark win/lose shadows
of last night's lose/lose traumatic
patriarchal-capitalist
loner anger
lone ranger
rabid stranger
nightmares
Going way back
to my fading youth
when teenage peers
monopolized a monoculturing worldview
I never trusted
as sufficiently compassionate
for resilient EarthMother Beauty.
It pains me to know that my baby is shy
Afraid to speak up, she lets her tears dry
I’ve been that little girl, mild and meek
Offended, abused, but dare not speak
I grew up ashamed, to be anything less
Or anything more than just like the rest
I hoped to be good, but feared being great
The resentment of shame, has filled me with hate
But Molly is different, her resilience, better
Agile, not fragile. She’s brilliantly clever
She observes the world in a rational manner
An optimistic spirit. Her horizons are grander
To find that, she too, houses demons within
The kind that tell lies, portraying a friend
“Don’t let them see, you’re vulnerable side
If you’re feeling too human, your thoughts, you must hide.”
It tugs at my heart, and scratches my soul
I resent those very demons and the joy they have stole
I wasn’t enough. My pain couldn’t suffice
But these brilliant bastards will hurt me twice