Long Wounding Poems
Long Wounding Poems. Below are the most popular long Wounding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wounding poems by poem length and keyword.
I stroll a silvered landscape
where trees are silhouetted spears,
stabbing memories of days first walked with you . . .
ice traceries, firey strands of longing lace,
wrap the crumbling dream,
like brittle, curling tinsel from childhood holidays.
A burning stream of cold tumbles seaward,
dislodging jagged stones, desire and disgust;
wounding barren feet.
Backward . . .
I trace pink-tinged footprints
along the line of demarcation
where love once gamboled in innocence
before the moon capitulated
and collapsed into the sea.
Lovely she was, but she is no more.
Copyright August 3, 2018
I confess that as a child the ruthless caused me
crippling pain with deeply wounding words and
bodily attacks that led me to falter through life.
I confess that various family member’s inflicted
incessant cruel criticisms that wholly damaged
my character leaving a soul shattered in shame!
I confess that all of these hypercritical people
painted me with a dark psyche and their evil
assumptions resulted in an imprisoned stigma.
I confess to never evolving as an adult due to severe
childhood trauma and domestic violence, and as such,
it is necessary to speak to me as if I'm a Child!
I confess to being stuck in my adolescence probably
between 6 and 13 yrs. old and can’t remove myself
from that timeline, so, I plead, how do I move on?
I confess that during childhood the intolerant
labels of shy, odd and withdrawn caused me to
be ostracized while living in utter humiliation.
I confess that in elementary school, my hands were hit
until they bled for laughing. And my father punched me
in the face for laughing destroying any possibility of joy.
I confess that my brokenness is impossible to
mend due to the atrocities inflicted. I tried to be
silent for so long drowning in unspeakable hurt.
I confess to having fast and frequent flashes of the
details of the horrors committed against me causing
doubt of whether I blacked out during the worst of it.
I confess that I pray every day to be set free from
the shackles they’ve built all around me, leading to
my many missteps for which I beg for compassion.
I confess that my broken spirit sought fairness and
kindness from everyone who I crossed paths with
but instead I found solitary condemnation.
I confess to pleading most urgently for the wicked
to cease from inflicting unbearable anguish on
God’s frail ones according His Word!
People whom are haters, better love mercy
People who rape women and children
People who steal for false prosperity
Like minded sinners filling up hell
People whom are murderers, better love mercy
People who abuse elder seniors better love forgiveness
People who mistreat animals is it true all dogs go to heaven
What chance does a sinner man have
When he's an atheist
And what about those who fondle and rape children
Who persecute those less fortunate
What about the one who shoots the guns
Wounding and killing at random
What about the adulterer, and fornicator
People who rape women and children
People who steal for false prosperity
Evil men dictators
Evil thoughts coming from us
And God once repented Himself that He made man
For you see we are sinful and dammed
Evil monarchs, kings and rulers
Whom cheat, lie, be ill-human--sub human
Dictators, Kings, Presidents
Evil men dictators
Evil thoughts coming from us
All shame, all sin
Are you all out or all in
Repent now, did I leave off something
Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess
That Jesus is Lord, so if I barely make it I better...better love mercy
Just in case I scarcely make it in
With all my sins, all my repentance, I better love grace
12/13/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2018 ©
July 11 Faith in God Bible Meditations Based on Psalms 140-145
Key Verse – Psalm 140:7 O God the Lord, the strength of my salvation, thou hast covered my head in the day of battle.
FAITH IN GOD WHO IS THE STRENGTH
OF OUR SALVATION
God is the strength of our salvation toward sincere thanksgiving
That allows our faith to show appreciation for gifts we are receiving
Away from ingratitude of haughty and skeptical perceiving
While we humble down before Him midst blessings He is giving.
God is the strength of our salvation toward heavenly praise
That increases our faith to exalt Him all through the days
Away from unbelief midst doubts in running life’s race
While we trust Him for miracles of wondrous ways.
God is the strength of our salvation toward genuine gladness
That fortifies our faith through His steadfast truthfulness
Away from spiritual wavering and waywardness
While we testify about His graciousness.
God is the strength of our salvation toward character-building
That keeps our faith healthy from sin-wounding
Away from falsehood of no understanding
While we learn from Him during our Bible reading.
God is the strength of our salvation toward virtue-enrichment
That establishes faith upon Scriptural commitment
Away from shallow devotion of shaky settlement
While we participate in His kingdom-advancement.
God is the strength of our salvation toward triumphant rejoicing
That brightens our faith through His redemption-blessing
Away from misery of sinfulness-cursing
While we declare the Gospel with His peaceful enforcing.
God is the strength of our salvation toward powerful service-fervency
That drives our faith for ardent prayer-persistency
Away from neglect, laxity and inconsistency
While we involve in great commission, sharing His love and mercy.
July 11, 2025
—Prithee, Beloved, Tarry Yet Awhile—
Lo! from the crypts where buried hours conspire,
the past came flooding with a nameless force,
and pulverised the dreams of obsidian fire
I bore within my eyes along their course;
yet thee, beloved, whom those dreams enclosed,
the ruin could not wholly discompose.
A childhood afternoon returned entire—
dust silvering a bicycle's worn chain,
the iron scent that follows sudden rain,
a whistle thinning through the telegraph wire;
such trifles, entombed beneath the years,
rose armed with teeth and drank my inward tears.
Then memory unsealed its subterranean sea:
old names, old faces, departures without graves,
a schoolbell striking through the dusk at me,
the smell of wet earth from forgotten days;
each recollection smote the inward glass
and drove another century through the past.
Prithee, beloved, tarry yet awhile;
I carry thee where dream and vision meet.
Touch not the fragments glittering round thy smile;
their edges have grown treacherously acute.
I know not which small splinter shelters thee,
nor which has learnt the shape of wounding me.
Let me stoop slowly through this inward wreck
and lift each broken heaven from its place;
for some shards still retain the vanished speck
of dawn that once inhabited thy face.
One enters flesh; another enters thought—
I bear thy vision where the wound becomes an eye.
Then, without wind, the splinters turned to rain;
the dead stars climbed the wounds they once had made,
and every wound became a seeing vein;
the heavens broke, yet nothing fell or stayed.
I touched the glass—and understood at last:
the shard was not the thing the years had cast.
So tarry. Let me finish what I must,
lest memory's bright wreck should enter thee;
I shall remove the fragments, not the dust
of all the years that taught my eyes to see.
And when the final shard lies still apart,
I shall not seek thee. Thou wilt be the sight.
There is a fire in my veins this night,
and I shall blaze across the skies,
as I must learn to tame this light,
lest it burn deep behind my eyes.
There are ghosts of battles in my breath,
from wars that play out in my mind,
whilst I speak, the tremor of true love bereft,
can be detected by kin and the kind.
My sleep, an inescapable venue for the parody,
rehearsed by monsters on a satirical stage,
delivering wounding lines deep into me,
that narrate waking life page by page.
Tonight is the one where I empty myself,
of love, and hope and dreams,
necessitated by madness and draining of health,
of collapses, and cries and screams.
I shall not sit dormant long enough,
as I need ink for my writing,
I will pen more words of loss or love,
when my subconscious mind stops fighting.
Begrudgingly I understand now I need,
this love, this caring, this pain,
it is born of aptitude not want nor greed,
so I shall visit those lands again.
I shall wield a mighty double edged sword,
as the march is beaten out by my heart,
with gusto I will charge right toward,
the embrace of my next counterpart.
That first touch, that spark, that melts inside,
to the sweet fanfare that halts the war,
The perception of time that at least for a stride,
to have torture and loneliness no more.
90 parts spent aching and breaking and spent,
and feeling like there should be no tomorrow,
I will be strong and strive towards that 10 per cent,
where the requited replaces the sorrow.
So sleep now and ready to bare your skin,
at the morning as it illuminates your pillow and mind,
suck up the darkness and stow it within,
as you are beautiful, and alive, now,
rewind.
When war is all there is,
peace doesn't have a chance.
When soldiers are just pawns,
in his diabolical plan.
Who laughs at their suffering,
rejoicing in the game?
He's the tycoon of torment,
the king of pain.
When humans are inhumane,
inflicting torture and shame,
being pleasured by the insane.
Who is happy wounding souls,
who feels their loss is his gain?
He's the magnate of misery,
the king of pain.
When disaster strikes the innocent,
lives go down in flames.
Who hides behind God throwing stones,
slandering his holy Name?
Revelling in the game.
He's the baron of broken hearts,
the king of pain.
Know his name?
S ultan of suffering
A ffliction Emperor
T ycoon of Torment
A che King
N oxious substance
Now you know who is behind all the suffering in the world, the King of Pain!
John Derek Hamilton November 18, 2015
Here come the tears again,
Trickling down in warm resolve, warm acceptance, and salty silence
Here they are again,
Wounding my memories in all that calls to experience’s despair
Absorbing every collapse, and every mangled misapprehension
Misunderstanding the purpose of a strong heart
For a weak moment to thrive…
Here, alone, it seems they always dissolve,
My skin moist, rippling in the thought of your absence
Crawling in the indemnity of your oblivious composure
Seeing the double door open and close,
Reaching out with a hand so anxious for you to understand
So drenched from attempting to dry these torrential tears
In time, they always dissolve into that unbearable acceptance and silence
His lips parted to speak,
Sharply, with a nervous edge
I tried to focus on his eyes, as I my own threatened to free its sorrows
And I stood there, like a fool, taking in words that would later break me...
“I was impressed.”
Were you?
Take them all!
Swim in them!
You still will never know my pain…
I can’t avoid
wounding others’ hearts with my words;
oftentimes with sarcasm I do forget
that what for me is jest
is for others a bitter herb hard to swallow.
It’s only later that I come to realize
that I have caused somebody’s pain;
then I, too, suffer and regret my tactlessness. .
So nowadays,
when I engage in discussions,
I take a deep breath and say a prayer
to be calm and be kind,
to respond gently and pick my words carefully,
to disagree without becoming offensive,
or, when I consider it best,
to choose silence, say nothing, and preserve the peace.
Among 3rd Place
Who I Am Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
To the cameraman who through your distant lense
sees one man with another's wife,
and clicks and silently uploads, to expose,
and so to make those lives implode.
Who do you see behind your shuttered home?
With wife away and children gone,
no prying eye save God's alone,
yet, still you pick and throw first stone.
To the journalist, seekings idle chatter
and thinks it does not matter to craft
your print for more damming slant,
that glint of gossip, that careful hint
arising from unguarded natter.
Let’s take a lense and see your life, alone,
and how you sniff that chalky line;
and while you pick and throw that stone,
drink just one more 'fore callng ‘time’.
To the editor who holds their coats,
while dreadful damming work is done,
do tell us how you treat your wife,
and your daughter, and your son?
Show us all, expose your lives.
Before you seek those speckled eyes,
look to the logs that are your own,
before you cast your wounding stone.