Long Weakens Poems
Long Weakens Poems. Below are the most popular long Weakens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weakens poems by poem length and keyword.
The Lake.....
lies… still,
a glistening sheet of tin foil,
shimmering in a cold-eyed wind.
At night
the lake still... lies… still;
a coffin with lid screwed light-tight.
On occasion, the moon trickles light,
lightly across the lake's pitch-black back;
the knack of making the coffin lid crack!
Today, I challenge myself
to touch-dive the lake’s chilling depths,
halfway down I halt, a dark vault,
weakens my errant confidence.
Despite puppet legs and handcuffed arms
I spin frantically to reach a detached surface,
bursting out like some skittish, Scottish salmon
only to be held between the two supremos;
illuminated sky and darksome water.
Tonight, the lake grips my bedroom window
and I watch as watery, inky tentacles
claw and talon at an unsettled shoreline.
Later, I wait for sleep to possess me,
sensing surrounding hills clinging closely
while rain falls like pellets of iron.
So I drift…listening to the lake
whispering dangerous, whispering treacherous secrets
until nature’s seesaw; night tilts into daylight.
Ian Souter
An old mad sitting alone
No friends or family comes to see him
He shares his space with his only true friend
A typewriter he used for so many years
Together they created
They wrote a million words
Words that came from his twisted mind
Came also from a heart long ago broken
A heart that was never repaired
Writing about love, death, war and peace
A million words that people read
Some were read and thrown away
Others were remembered and shared
Still others changed lives in ways he never knew
With all that no one knew his name
He knows that time is coming to an end
Searching his mind he tries to find the right words
Words that express just how he feels
His mind strains as his heart weakens
Key by key he strokes his friend
Letters appear on a blank white page
The old man looks at what he had written
He smiles as he takes his last breath
The typewriter seems to smile back
There are only three words written
Three words that expressed just how the old man felt
“Go to Hell,” was all he wrote
Maybe, just maybe those were the right words
Maybe they are the words that will be remembered
Now that the old man is gone
A good sense of humour blunts the sharp blades
Lifting a heavy heart, making our burden fades
Permanent or temporary, it’s facial muscles' relaxant aid
Bringing joy and laughter, keep it as a precious jade!
Humour is anti-stress, a powerful medicine in life
A priceless cream to cure our cuts from trial’s knife
When some difficult circumstances come rife
Exchange humour with someone to cope, forget any strife.
Humour only interferes… alleviating boredoms
Strengthens neurons, gives us brilliance and wisdom
As facial muscles stretch from smiles, we can overcome
Some problems pass while sense of humour is our chum.
When our sense of humor weakens or runs-out
Ask AI’s help, watch reels, takes things light, don’t pout
Our own facial expressions can even make some humors sprout
To keep the world laughing, always be ready like a scout!
It flails, it wails, it weeps, it creeps, this feeling inside
The thoughts, the flaws, the confusion...it creeps, this feeling inside
The anger, the pain, the frustration, wrought deep within me
It creeps, this feeling inside
In vain it stays and tries to control me
In darkness it hinders itself in my light
Does it not know I have let go
Does it not see its useless bidding
In my sweet slumber it comes
Tries to remind me of the past
Does it think I will surrender in my sleepfulness
It flails, it wails, it creeps, it weeps,this feeling inside
Oh but I am free
It can no longer hold me
In it's crude iron bars
Not against this joy widening inside me
And the endless rays of my smiles
As it flails, wails, weeps, creeps
It fumbles, it weakens, it flounders, in drowns
In my sweet array of boundless joy
Because I am free
I smile at every morning's light
Form:
I have a right that sometimes seems beyond reach,
And I seek a peace that often seems far away.
I wonder how much further I must journey to attain everything I desire,
And I question why I need to struggle for necessities that are rightfully mine.
When the roots go deep, the body thrives with vitality and exuberance.
But when those roots cannot find suitable ground, the body weakens and eventually fades away.
The direction of the roots determines the vibrancy of our lives.
When rights pave the way for blooming fields, liveliness follows.
Where is my right to social security?
Why am I at the edge of homelessness?
Why do I labour and can’t afford all that savours?
If I aspire to have my needs met, then where is my right to a comfortable existence?
My right is my fortitude;
It enables me to step through the door of daylight with renewed gratitude.
My rights are my emblems of hope;
They are my support and strength.
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
???THE ROAD TO HEAVEN AND HELL???
The road to heaven feels like hell,
When discipline calls, and I must compel,
My body soaks sweat, my soul safes strive,
In the gym's dead ends, my spirit comes alive.
The weights are heavy, the reps are tight,
But with each lift, I feel heaven's light,
Light of a stronger me, a soul set free,
From the chains of slothfulness & lethargy.
But the road to hell feels like heaven,
When temptation calls, and I am uneven,
The couch is soft, the snacks are sweet,
And on lazy days, my soul would gladly greet.
The feast is spread, food calls for more rounds,
But in each bite, my health heavily drowns,
In a sea of fatness, and in sugar's snare,
My body weakens, soul's swansong draws near.
The discipline of exercise, a path we should choose,
To forge a strength, that time won't lose,
The road to heaven, though hard to tread,
Leads to a body and soul fitted & well-fed.
While the road to hell, though easy to take,
Leads to a life of slothfulness & heart easy to break.
So I'll choose the fire that burns within,
And walk the path of discipline in order to win.
???VICK MANUEL POETRY???
{VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 20th May 2025.
Phantom of the Opera
I stand and watch from my box five
And listen to the most beautiful Nightingale
I could stay awake till wee hours of dawn gale
Listening to her melodic voice
Transcendent a soul through a lovely vale
A ring upon her finger I hope one day and feel alive
An Angel of Music
I come and go as I please and no one knows
As I walk the path of the tunnels mongst those
To its lake beneath the Opera Garnier
I know them as well as the construction rose
Mask ball I pretend to be in my everyday life
A voice behind a mask is all people know of that
A man that wears a dress suit, a cloak and a large felt hat
A gentleman wears a mask to hide his deformed face.
She cannot fathom the mystery of the Man’s Voice
The sounds of his voice singing songs coming from the walls
My heart broke turning into jealousy and rage
When Christine said yes to her childhood sweetheart
To say good-by forever and turn the pages
I lose my sleep to sleepless nights it’s her I miss
Venetian mosaics ceiling weakens
Causing the huge ornate crystal chandelier
To crash down upon the floor
Stealing his beloved Christine
To the cellars of the Opera Garnier
Time is running out and you know it well
“It will never be “she says, for you and me”
I just wanted to be like everybody else
And not hide from man’s eyes
The Monster I am
11/23/2016
Resource;
https://seeksghosts.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-phantom-of-opera-fact-or-fiction.html
https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/l/leroux/gaston/phantom-of-the-opera/complete.html
The worst betrayal is not against a friend,
Nor against a stranger on the road of life;
It is the lie a man tells to his own soul,
And the foolish courage to believe it.
Self-deceit is a quiet corruption,
A throne built for falsehood in the mind;
Truth is buried beneath comforting shadows,
While illusion rises wearing a crown.
A man may deceive the watching world,
And still one day return to the light;
But he who deceives his own conscience
Builds a prison no eye can see.
Its walls are made of stubborn pride,
Its gates are sealed with silent fear;
He walks within it thinking himself free,
Yet every step leads deeper inside.
Self-deceit blinds the vigilant conscience,
And numbs the wisdom of the heart;
It weakens the pillars of character
Until integrity begins to crumble.
Thus a man walks boldly in error,
Certain he travels the road of truth;
Correction becomes an insult to him,
And honest words sound like enemies.
This darkness is deeper than death,
For death only quiets the body;
But self-deceit imprisons the living soul
And chains it to its own illusion.
Like a shadow that refuses to leave,
It follows even in the brightest day;
Until courage awakens within the heart
To face the truth once buried.
Therefore learn the discipline of honesty,
Let truth guide the path you walk;
For a man who is truthful with himself
Can never be conquered by darkness.
Without my pen, the pain becomes my voice.
The cruelty of others, the hardness of their hearts,
Linger in this place of cult,
Where public shaming is currency.
I scream for help, face to face,
Yet they cast me deeper into despair.
Tears bleed red, patience drains,
My heart trembles, a silent echo in the vast universe.
My eyes never dry, my body weakens,
Heart torn apart, full of anguish,
Yet no one feels the depth within;
They mistrust the plea for help.
This is my story, my life—
Manipulated by whispers,
By cults hiding in plain sight.
Insecurity among them breeds cruelty.
They lurk at corners, ready to strike.
I called for help. He laughed: "You're funny."
How can real danger ever sound like a joke?
This is the world's cruel reality:
Where chasing money and shifting blame
Leave no space for help.
And still—I believe, somewhere, somehow,
kindness awaits—
like a single candle glimmering
in the heart of the void.