Long Writing Poems

Long Writing Poems. Below are the most popular long Writing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writing poems by poem length and keyword.


The Ugliest Poem

The worlds Ugliest Poem

Think chaos will become the new norm
in this world where life and words are cheap
think there'll be bodies littering the streets
and blood rolling into the gutters
from people killing their neighbors
just to get a little something to eat
and a place to lay their heads at night to sleep
think their'll be rioting all around
scorched earth the only ground
will we cry out unto God
or will we simply blame him
I wonder what things will be like
for the innocent little children
Oh how I wish we could stop right now
before anything like this happens
and it happens
yeah, it happens
mostly in war torn nations
and those that are so very poor
and what makes any of us think that we are better than them
think our nation is not filled to the brim
it could happen
yeah, it'll probably happen
because we don't know how to live
and our ministers preach personal salvation
how can we inherit the kingdom of heaven
if we forsake our own nation
or are we forsaken
by the leaders that we trust
are they are part of us
or have they become so rich and full of pride
that it's time to knock them down to size
before this happens
because it happens
Oh my God have mercy
for I fear this time there'll be no place to hide
here I sit writing and typing
it's all I can do all balled up inside
filled with fear and anxiety
and I type and type and I type
striving to warm them and explain to them why
yet it seems all of my words are in vain
it's as if
my work is little more than a strange curiosity
and sometimes I wonder if it's me or the world that's insane
they prefer lies so nice
I guess it makes them feel like everything is OK
don't lift the Vail or just might see me
and who wants to believe that their'll be hell to pay
for all the children starving in the streets
that have no place to stay
all dirty and full of disease
how can we turn them away
and some of these are angels
think they can hear you pray
at night before you go to sleep
without worry or pain
it happens
yeah, it happens
and it could happen to you
think your life is fool proof
I wonder if chaos will be the new norm
I wonder if it already is
at least to some extent
cancer is on the rise
and how can we possibly fix this
maybe I just worry to much
maybe I should just turn on the TV
and watch something fun
while it happens
yeah, while it happens
© Mark Beal  Create an image from this poem.
Form:


~ (~) ~ Answering Hate (Part #1 of 5) ~ (~) ~

Thank you so much for your honesty friend. I paused and took some time with your
statements to me to ponder on it. Yes I have these problems that are always rising up
within me from time to time. The truth is I believe that I need all the help that I can
get. Because my soul is tortured as well by them. I'm glad you were patient enough to read
anyway. Takes a lot of strength and courage to be as honest as you have been, I appreciate
it. It reminded me, that relying on myself alone, and remaining alone with these things
makes it all the more harder for me to remain honest with myself. As you have so plainly
been with me so again I thank you. I just get so afraid sometimes to be this way. But I
feel that honestly it is a true strength that you have. You I feel are truly blessed.
Gifted with this boldness of heart. You carry it well. I feel it is the most precious and
there is no truer strength lying within you. If I were you, well I would feel blessed and
encouraged by it truly... . As for what was stated in the writing it was for me a simple
message. 

Though I can tell you myself it made my belly uncomfortable too. When I heard... saw it
for myself for the first time. Made me cry... . Because I truly don't want myself to feel
it anymore than is necessary, being reminded today what it truly means to be like this. As
I considered and still keep trying to grow to know through it how I have in turn been
brought to yield it myself every time I saw for myself my own hate. You know it makes me
more and even more afraid. Because I've been like this in one form or the other my whole
life. I probably always will be without some help, I figure that when I heard this message
first, it rose within me in this greater form. I didn't like it either at all. Made me run
to something more though and today I am feeling a little, sometimes quite better the more
I am moved away from it. Because I also found that for myself, I wanted more than just
this hate and living alone with it. And through hearing the truth of it, I knew that I
alone could not stop it from rising up from within me... . 

Because I don't truly enjoy feeling sick to my tummy like this. It has been for me this
way for a long time and I am finding that it can in its reality surely kill me, because
for myself I let it consume me. 





http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnKoAEs65Pg
© James Long  Create an image from this poem.

Epiphany: a Poet In Love

Did Shakespeare ever fall in love?
A rose by any other name would 
stink as sweet!
What would Y'eshua say if indeed 
Magdalene was his favorite disciple?
What miracles would he impress her 
with
So as to savor her forbidden apple?
O woman!
Is that why god made you last of all 
nature's enviable beauty?
If before he said let there be light
You were the first thing his devine 
eyes saw
I bet creation would have been a 
different theory altogether.

If love at first sight was a figure of 
speech
Then I swear I love you like a 
metaphor
And your smile is a typo
They meant to say a simile
I will kiss your face like a blank page
And my lips will be the tip of my 
pencil
Drawing drooling hieroglyphs like 
the hand of god
Inscribing Ten Commandments of 
Love
On the tablets of your breasts
Because my name is Moses
A stammerer on a voyage to save a 
lonely soul
From the shackles of cynicism
On love affairs.

I would love to laugh while making 
rough love to you 
On the dark floor of my solitude cell
Where torn pages of amatuerish 
poems lay as a carpet
Because you are my words:

Maybe your face is the sky
And your eyes are the stars
Maybe your laughter is a symphony
Of a million harps from a million 
virgin angels

I have written about love a million 
times
And still you remain elusive
A mystery
Are you an acrostic;
So each letter tells your tale?
Maybe a couplet or limerick?
Are you a sonnet? Or a ballad? Or a 
metre without a rhyme?
Maybe you are a mere syllable I 
mumble at every sudden ******.
Your body is a symmetry of regular 
ryhthm
Consumate from five to seven
And back to five
Haiku:
Japanese poets should build a 
pedestal for you
And all lustful lads
Should come and slink the slank at 
your feet
Indeed lady,
Your gait and pride and smell of 
shaven armpits and eyeballs might 
make a eunuch have an ********
And that to me
Is amorous injustice!

Tell me,
What can a scribe do?
When all I write about is human 
weakness 
And wickedness?
When writing to me is an escape 
from adjectives I can't utter over a 
cup of coffee?
To me,
The strand of your hair alone
Deserves atleast umpteenth stanzas 
of praise
A prerequisite.

If I say I love you
Will you giggle at my palpability?
Why bore you with parables
When all you yearn for is a touch
And forever?

I will say no more.
© Myq Wudz  Create an image from this poem.

Truth? Lies? Or Your Gift?

What do you believe?
What do you know?
did you have any clue i read tarot cards professioanlly for the oldest restarunt built
in my city
and predict surprised birthday parties that have passed
and cfan tell you all sorts of secrets of exaggerated emotion and paranoia
that only the moon knows

So like the life lesson of the hanged man
are you here to realise you are gullible or to see through me and know ive been 
telling the truth
is this a test for you flase prophet
or your spiritual awakening with another card before you saying all of my poetic 
poems that sound personal are nothing more than fabrications
and many of you judge me
and that further goes to prove my writing ability?

Is it true do i know anything of being bonded to the material
and the devil who reminds me the keys to my chains are within my grasp
And the tower of unforseen catastrophe always has a happy ending or a rainbow
but only a true prophet in the year 2012 in las vegas understands the 
conspirtualacy of my craft

Is the hierophant all about the conformity of society 
and the grouping together of the nonconformidt youth
so when the saints and sinners pull to gether to revolutionise and pull this star 
from the sky will our dreams or nightmares come true?

Tell me prophet Am i a fool because the magician never taught me his tricks
but i understand the perfect shufles and have a deck of freudian slips of my own?
the blue moon sunrise and the three levels of the game of reality
we take babysteps of fear to beat or fail to proceed or return to the start
Where exactly is the emperor's crown of authority when society understands the 
slide of psychology
and the one of a million being catered to 
and the billion sof like minded individuals that spiral out from this psychological 
understanding

Am i in the driver seat of the chariot and do i have enough temperance
to balance the forces of good and bad to see the pros and cons
of the blessings and ultimatums of desires and consequence
were you gullible all this time to fall for my lies?
or were you smart enough to see them as works of art?
or are you a true prophet and need to start the revolution from the earth and the 
pollution of our skies

here i am 
a false martyr
tell me prophet whats in store for me
and what am i to do?

Hypnotized

Is slavery dead? Honestly it isn’t
Those of us who conform are stuck within a prison
We follow celebrities and we wear their clothes
As if they are Gods and we are mere mortals

As if they are shepherds and we are merely sheep
As if they are they are the strong and we are the weak
We quote their words and become their clones
And if we break their trend, we are left alone

And as they pass, we shower them with gifts
Money, so they can go and get their face lifts
Fame, so they can go out and conquer more slaves
Power, so they can destroy those who call them fake

They’ve brainwashed us so much we’ve gone completely numb
We openly cheer when the hero pulls out his gun
We don’t understand that we’re all completely mindless
We’re overjoyed only if the screen shows senseless violence

Nearby a police officer fights for his life
As a drug dealer tries to stab him with a butterfly knife
We’d call for help, but we’re busy with our own stuff
Discussing how the movie was good, but the killing wasn’t realistic enough

Our emotions are gone, we are all just droids
We don’t cry when we hear about a little boy
Who was killed in a shooting by a merciless gang
Because his father was part of the Ku Klux Klan

Instead we just shrug and respond “That’s the world today.”
“His father was an idiot,” is all that most people can say
“Things happen for a reason. That’s the Lord’s way.”
But that night, for that boy, everyone forgets to pray

We watch a few minutes of the news, not because we want to know
Coming up next is the new hit reality show
We’d rather watch girls dancing and grinding on each other
Instead of observing a woman work two jobs and be a good mother

And if disaster strikes, we observe the destruction and pain
The details of the damaged are extensively explained
But money only comes to charities with writing on the bag
The money must be packaged with a rich man’s name tag

So when the people see, they will remember what his mask looks like
He only cares if he’s quoted saying, “They will be all right.”
And with that, his money, fame, and power grows
And in the next election, it could even win him more votes

Learn to break the chains, learn to set yourself free
Your eyes are open, but you must learn to see
Don’t drink their potion. Don’t let them inside
Don’t stare at the pendulum too long or you’ll be hypnotized


Thanks To You All

Thanks to you all
Thanks to those who come to 
poetrysoup.com, practise poems, 
write, read and share poems 
and comment on others

Thanks to those who read my
writings, do comments, follow 
me, avoid my poems, block
and ban me from their list
Thanks to you all

I’ve no eternity here, all of me
from least to chest, best to edge,
sharpen blade of new paddy leaves
jeopardize my torn nib of ink
in the field of writings graph  

Maybe I couldn’t write any word 
for beauty and stunning young girl 
in comprehension, in passion and 
in my fashionable heart

Maybe I couldn’t write charming note
of flower’s petals, striking fragrance,
in my perpetuity lake of quills

Maybe I couldn’t draw the sexy body of 
rose, lotus, tulip, sunflower, orchid, 
lily, daffodil… etc in my vulnerable
reef of poetic expression

Maybe I couldn’t draw the colors magic
of rainbow in my infatuated fallen 
soaked feathers with November rain

Maybe I couldn’t inscribe the nature
the cosmos, the solar system, the ocean, 
the black hole, the space, the sky, the stars, 
the planets, the galaxies, the meteors, the
gravitational power…etc in my slumbering 
wings of writings

Maybe I couldn’t plant the meditational
tree into the pure heart of words, I couldn’t
select the seeds of immortality in my
ascetic madness and magma script

Maybe I couldn’t greet the autonomy flying
of Cockatiels, Parakeets, Canaries, Finches, 
African Grey Parrots, Budgerigars, Cockatoos, 
Conures, Macaws, Poicephalus…etc in my 
unintelligible incarcerated language 

Maybe I couldn’t hail the abode for Labrador, 
Bulldog, German, Poodle, Beagle… etc and
Maine Coon, Egyptian Mau, American Bobtail,
Ragdoll…etc in my materialistic 
harvesting terminology 

Maybe I couldn’t sleep with power of poems,
dream to be a finest classic or modern poet
in my kingdom of pen, paper, ink, writing
table-chair and lamp

Notwithstanding all these, I thanks to those
who come here at least one time daily, 
erratically and read, write, share own 
thoughts and comment frankly 

Thanks to you all a lot. Thanks and love you
all. From me always ready the rose without 
thorns and love for you all, although you bleed 
my heart by thorns stinging 


-November 14, 2018 Chattogram



////

DEDICATED TO POETRYSOUP.COM and ALL POETS-POETESSES OF THIS ESTEEMED LITERARY SITE

A Life Time of Addiction

I'm sitting here right now, just thinking back through time,
about all the things I've been addicted to, through out my entire life.
now this has got me thinking, why was this so,
why I thought so many of my addictions were a good way for me to cope.

Addicted to lollies and video game as a child, they made me happy.

Addicted to violence at 9, because love was about control.

Addicted to writing at 10, a place for me to hide.

Addicted to smoking at 11, don't know really why,

also addicted to masturbation, to take my frustrations away

and addicted to movies, cause there was silence for a while.

Addicted to Alcohol at 12, it made me feel good inside.

Addicted to cannabis at 13, it freed me from my mind.

Addicted to hashes oil at 15, progressing I guess.

Addicted to gang life at 16, this was what I wanted to be.

Addicted to the party life at 17, it got me away from home.

Addicted to prescription medications at 18, a whole new world to see.

Addicted to gambling at 21, a real emotional ride.

Addicted to various T.v show, a way to fantasize.

also addicted to arguing and fighting, because I was always right.

For the next 5 years I went back and forth through all my addictions you see,
never really knowing where I fit in, because none of these were me.
so long was I trapped by addictions, in my mind it was the way to survive,
I truly thought my addictions were the only things keeping me alive.

Addicted to Yahoo messenger at 26, only thing on computers I knew how to do.

Addicted to bebo at 28, cos all my friends had one.

Addicted to helping people at 30, so much pain I could ease.

Addicted to tribal wars at 31, because I lacked satisfaction in my life.

then came a new addiction, to publish what I write.

Addicted to education at 34, so much I needed to understand.

and of course there was  face book, well everyone is on face book.

Addicted to reprogramming myself at 36, this is where i'm at now.

i'm also addicted to my children, for they give me strength when i'm down.

I look back on my life and all I see is a lot of misery,
so coming to terms with my addictions, is my a new fight for me,
once I understand and embrace them all,
I can teach my children there's a better life in store.

I know I will never be free from addictions,
because I have an addictive mind,
the only difference now from then,
are healthier ones I find.

M.Mahauariki © 2012
Form:

Surveillance Camera

i need to stop frowning and epitomizing
and sell this Caddy to the Cardinal
trying to let it miss your attention won't fly
since writing is speech even if somewhat removed
or fit only for bouncy news anchor banter
pancake makeup a bit too aflame
like they do in shadow theater
where the container is the contained
because we can still index the cornucopia
eff you said the furry little May Pole Bunny
you can be sure he was in on it too 
along with the Hen in the Willow
the Great Flaming Spiral in the Sky 
and the nuns of St. Manacle
doing their Plantation Rebel Dance
with cascade of equally herkimer antecedents
perpetually enthused with the mystery of tomorrow
just don't try to tell me how to move my eyelids
smoke signals will always take care of that
cascading across the clacking copper contacts
in a total lack of continuity all at once
it is a pigeon tongue spoken in barter
barely able to walk after the derision of linguists
lobbed horseshoes across the barricades
against surgeons wielding kitchen knives
on a search and destroy mission
for chopped liver epicures from the Bank of Winter
living dead men's dreams was no picnic
memes eating my soul like red worms
only my degree from the School for the Sickly
standing between me and the Necromancers 
who were emphatically not house trained
my collective unconscious operation manual
tossed on the burn pile half a life ago
now dumbed down to syntactically correct 
in infinitesimal quantities with a Nefertiti smile
my mind a bordello of interpretation
God is not dead he is passe etc.
a raised by wolves feral non-conformist
everything orbits everything else
and that's space for you
which will bend yer crank kid
unless you can get your mood to swing
out from the nether realms of mourning
and the agony of oblique signals
written with the ***** of Satan
shaking money from your pockets again
a Conniving Backstabbing Bastard production
he hated coercion like he hated licorice
he was revolution incarnate all fresh and rosy
it was a kosher Pentecost event
tried quoting Lenin but it was too easy
the proletariat is people in a pickle
the dueling cucumbers of class warfare
now I'm on a dozen watch lists
followed by Diana's paparazzi
to this claustrophobic cinemaplex
and its temporal artery of light
at 3 in the afternoon
a good cheap remedy
following a bad diagnosis

The Morning Soars With Skylarks Singing Repost

The morning soars with skylarks singing
o'er the greening meadow and the pliant pasture,
the ocean sighing, gulls aloft on wings of prayer.
A sudden shower would see me running
fancy free between the rain drops,
I cried 'Excelsior!' and set the hills alive;
I skittered, happy, crisp and clear, 
like God's first measure of a holy hymn.

The air alive with songs of praise, 
the gentle winds a sacred message,
His grand prescription like a dream
that streamed out from the pillows of the heavens.
I liked to wander by the sea shore
skipping stones, disobeying laws of gravity,
as a lamb on shaky legs and tumbled freely without care,
'til gasping, I would stop to catch my breath.

The halcyon days of youth came true,
when I would race forever 'neath the tawny sun,
bedaubed in Autumn's blood, the flame
a blend of hues the likes of which 
would make a young boy doubly blind,
and lead him into kingdoms where the battlefields
would blister scarlet, happy times
that made me see my childhood clearly.

The weather turned again, and shanties
high atop the hillside loomed like castles drifting
in the sea-blown mist, the noise of boats,
their nets pulled, nudging at the jetty.
From the sand the village was a hazy spectre,
the chapel steeple peeking like Rapunzel's lair,
her hair a daydream falling soft,
O fanciful imagination!

I thought to when my mother took my hand. 
We skipped the cobblestones and shopped for wishes,
toys which we could ill-afford;
a Batman cape, a red fire engine.
The lanes were thick with merchants and the joy of life,
haggling, chattering like crazy seabirds,
loud, and mouthing their wants and wares,
and then we wandered home exhausted.

I never lost my youthfulness, 
my joy at seeing herons gloating, eagles floating
high on zephyr'd breezes free as spring;
hallowed times, in Jesus' presence.
I measure now my moments as the hours shift by,
thirty years and blissful, regrets are slight and few,
I count my blessings, feel content
that tribulation never came to bother me.

A birthday cake is waiting for me,
candles flicker, frosting beckons, hope eternal;
my wish the same, for peace on earth
to all men, greetings and goodwill!
I lie down in the close and holy quiet 
while the village sleeps, and slips toward a new adventure,
safe in His keeping, perfect day
with promise of a bright tomorrow.
Form: Verse

A Note of Appreciation For Poetrysoup and All Soupers

I just wanted to thank Poetry Soup for, well, for being, for existing as a format for poets to share their hearts and souls. I can hardly believe it's been 6 years (gulp!) since I first posted a poem here--it was about that time that I started writing poetry again after a 30 plus year hiatus since I stopped writing anything in my early 30's. Why I stopped or why I began again, I don't know: Who can explain creativity? But somehow I found Soup and well, a community. So may I thank, on behalf of that community, all you unsung heroes who maintain the 'Soup'.

And as to all those who add their 'ingredients' into the Soup, let me commend ALL of you. In those same 6 years I have not read a single poem that was pretentious, egotistical, idiosyncratic to the point of being so obscure as to seem meaningless--in other words, so called 'modern' contemporary poetry as favored  by a depressing number of lit mags today. I've learned at last to stop wasting my time submitting to such [and certainly not if they demand a reading fee] as I-- fool that I am-- continually strive to find meaning in both what I write and what I read. One editor even warned not to send anything that 'conveyed' a meaning, and in no uncertain terms did he want did he want to hear anything about the soul or the heart or-God forbid!- God. 

I suspect this is why so many people are turned off by modern poetry today-- and who can blame them? Wasting time reading a bunch of big/obscure/erudite words strung together, only to scratch your head wondering what the hell did that all mean? The best poems are often very simple: 'to be or not to be', 'death kindly stopped for me', 'the Lord is my shephard' -- but they always take you SOMEWHERE [though it may not be a place you immediately recognize]. The best poems, I believe, increase awareness, not leaving you feeling confused, perplexed, frustrated ['what the hell did that mean?' ] This does not mean they give you answers --but they may suggest some. And as modern society becomes increasingly at odds with itself, at risk quite literally of fragmenting, some insight would seem as valuable as it is rare.

The contests are fun at Soup and many demonstrate how clever and knowledgeable Soupers are about the myriad poetical forms. I have to say, though, I wish there were more thematic contests--open to any form that served to enlighten the proposed theme.
Form: Prose

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