Long Writting Poems
Long Writting Poems. Below are the most popular long Writting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Writting poems by poem length and keyword.
That must have taken Ball's to write
The answer to which is both
Yes and No
Otherwise i wouldn't have been able
to have shared it with you
And what's the point is if all I share is
fake and leads you up the garden path
deceiving you into believing i am great
If i can not honestly admit my faults and point out
where i went wrong would i not be stringing
you along
I can not see the point or value in writting
if my primary reason is to be liked
Behind a keyboard and with total anonymity i get
the fact that you can choose to be anyone you want
But speaking personally from the Heart
this is not my 1st date manifesto putting my
best foot forward
I would rather you come to know me
warts and all and not colour your decision
If i speak and tell you only truth
I never have to remember the lies i told
And for me that is enough
And that unfortunately includes both the ugly and bad stuff 2
THE MEANING OF ME SHALL ALWAYS BE
JOINED BY THE GREAT AND SPIRITUALLY
THE QUAINTNESS AND AGES IT HAVE TOOK
TO REWRITE THE PAGES OF SAM COOK
I GRAVELY TAKE CHAPTERS AND LIVE THEM TOO
FROM EVERYTHING IN ME THE SOULFUL THE BLUE
SHALL THE VINTAGE TIMES READ MISTY AND YET
THE LEGENDARY ME FOR I SHANT FORGET
WHILE THE PURITY MOVES INSPIE A HARSH FLOW
PNLY GIVING THE MEANING A PLAN TO GROW
AS HERITAGE IS GREAT AND SO FULL OF HOPE
AS THE GUIDANCE AND STRENGTH ALLOWS US COPE
WHY THE LAZY DAZE OF MISSING HEAVEN ALL GOODBYES
AS THE TRANQUIL BLESSINGS GLEAMS IN THEE EYES
WHILE THE PEACEFUL NATURE CONTINUES TO RISE
AS THE MEANING OF IT ALL TAKES FRONT STAGE
WHILE THE JOURNEY GROWS PAGE AFTER PAGE
WRITTING BY YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
MARCH 17 2005 IN AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
I SIMPLY ADORE BEING A POET
Oh final stanza
Title yet required
Men of mice
Oh Sancho Panza
O Wilde
Oh Auden juicy bone clock
Oh vagueties of meaning
Speak unto me in visions
of language only i may understand
Feed me grool as spaghetti soup
Until i plead please Sir,
May i have some more
Fulfill my lesser known desires
catch me up in Dante Inferno
back draft
Beat , form , flow , glow
Stroke , poke , needle , prick
Dark , light , day , night
Love , argue , fight , make-up
Hope , faith , belief , positivity
Endless possibilities of kaos
karma reciting mantras
Oh quality
O revelry
What such sweet penalties await
When writting on muffled drum
Sabre rattling one's pen scratching
furrowed brow over tilted monocle
Whilst drenched in pools of
pensive acidic sweat from
over thinking thought
Ever still enveloped and intoxicated
by the poem's pacing through my
mind racing blindly out of control
While all the while i wishing
this was not my chosen hobby
but merely just a past time
That i could leave behind and
would let up and in so doing
free me from this cursid state
of insomniac wordplay paralysis
That blights my night's and
suppresses me from dreaming
Till all that's left is yawning and
a billion plus random word's that
don't make sense to anyone but me
28th October 2020
For Chantelle Anne Cooke
Inward Reflections Poetry Contest
If on reflection
The aforementioned question
posed was thus
Then this is the very reason i began
or started writting poetry in the
first place
To reflect on pressing problems
life and loss and the world we
all find ourselves living with in
If i was to lie i could say i was
well educated clever and he
without sin so entitled or worthy
to be listened to
But that would be a lie and make
a mockery of who i say i am
To be or not to be
Who, why, what am i on the inside
In simple terminology i am male
48 year's old single with no children and British
Have an older sister and my mother
is my only surviving parent as my
father passed away in 2001
But in regards to my view on
inward reflection i refer you to
my hobby of writting poetry
As most my work is dedicated
to this very subject matter and
making sense
Of who and what i am and lies
dormant beneath and on my inside
Not to be liked for how other's wish
to view me on the outside
Life is not a performance piece
of art for other's entertainment
If the outside does not in fact
mirror the person on the inside
Otherwise it is totally pointless
and irrelevant
I'm dropping a path, run past my eyeballs rolling
Catch my camera holding seconds and fight the moment
Lifes an ocean, fish in this sea are gonna be caught
Death loves us all loads, but he wants to be yours
My phonics reward me with lines that form sentances
Pure strength but might not rhyme when they're said
I stem from messages I've heard, and then became
People who leave you, and therefore can't be named
My arms are plagued with chances to carve them up
But the opertunity not to, didn't seem half as good
Most won't grasp the stuff, I just said, nuff said
But if there's those who do, is that a plus? ..yes
I must stress because stress is more than pressure
And I feel the weight, and this ain't sport or leisure
Of course I prefer to write nice things, happy thoughts
But if I'm doubting everything, what am I asking for?
I laugh that your probably not fathoming this rambling
Honestly, its not postponed, your canvas is cancelling
I am a king, amoung words, and writting abilities
Dumb jerks, none of the ideas you bring are ill as these
I'm spilling speach, flowing fourth with a tidal wave
A magic carpet of letters, and everyone rides the page ..
Form:
Solitude is now a trained trait
It’s easier than teaching the selfish to cooperate
Past the lights of yesterday
I see tomorrow fade away
Mundane voices talk with ease
Explaining why we go to sleep
Hieroglyphics carved in walls
Lead the way into our stalls
Different tones above our skies
Give our gods an alibi
Friendless souls still stomp around
Deciding if they own our town
Pristine people right and true
Can be bribed to work four you
Forced in to a governmental sacrifice
Seems to decrease our economical price
My minds been monopolized
Taken hostage by a pack of lies
Our love smothers, we destroy with hate
Emotional providences we can’t regulate
Poison from a broken heart
Can be used to dip a dart
Men have fought on foreign land
War has always been freedoms demand
Fallen comrades buried deep
Buried with the maps we seek
Thoughts not directly from my mind
Take refuge in my memory at times
Strong and educated we are immense
Unable though to choose sides of defense
A stagnate society lies in wait
Watching to see what our children create
Promises made of true satisfaction
Redeemed By investing in political action
The flag though torn still it waves
Granting our freedom, although were not enslaved
We have the choice or so they claim
To play like them or lose the game
Our elders, our teachers, to us they now run
Grappling at their justice; for answers, to us come.
2025.2.1
Saturday, the 4th day of CNY.
I felt a bit upset and unease.
For years, I always wanted,
I could share something of mine,
To people with great mind.
I loved rhythms and poems,
I have a book full of them in different languages.
With them, it is always my pleasure to read and recite.
Since he walked into my life,
Triggered my artistic side,
I began writting my diary in poetry.
I wrote many pieces,
But did not know how to share any of it.
Then, on January sixteen this year,
Out of no where, someone approached me,
Told me all about Poetry website,
After helping me to post some of mine,
And promising many other things,
Then, all of a sudden, this person,
For some unknown reasons, ceased all communications.
I don't mind if I never speak to him again,
Just hate to think, if I have done anything wrong.
Any way, thank you for introducing me, the Poetrysoup.com
And letting me know about the Brahms lullaby music.
I have heard it three decades ago,
From a night light musical toy,
The music gave me so much joy,
I had tried to make the lyric since,
But needed to understand the history.
Thank you for solving my query.
I have completed two versions of lyrics,
Soon after I was challenged to do it.
Well, all good thing comes to an end
I hope I can continue to write poems and play music.
What else can I ask for in life.
True friends are hard to find
you're lucky if you get just one
one day they there then the next day they are gone,
but you are a true friend and there can be no other
this is to say we love you dearest mother.
it was quite painful writting this poem as i did not really know my mother,
but mam we know you did not mean to hurt us,we know you never meant to make us cry,
you left us because you had no choice at that time for your own sanity you needed to go and
get space and a chance to be happy again, every one deserves true happiness, but we do
not blame you for leaving us and we hope you rest in peace, we all do what we have to do
but God is love, he understands everything so sleep well, untill we meet again.
It is with sad heart that I say my goodbye.
It is there I will miss the smile you put apon my face everyday.
That just having you kept my heart pumping to where now it is dead of feeling.
It is of a heartless soul to which exist within me.
It is with anger and tears my eyes bleed.
With that of a rose to which is of dead leaves,so does my being
know of its feel to dry and die away.
My sight is no longer there for like the fresh of breath he give me,it has vanish.
I am just a person now and not a being.
The love may still be there but it hurts me to take in deep air as my pain
I feel on my chest is a kill.
There I have lost the woman I love for life that once told,never look back.
But to look back is the experience that life has taken,rather good or bad.
But that of a trust to which was ripped and torn to shred.
It was of a love one could know and feel.
That to which made them stand proud to say I am who I am and this is my other half.
One that only one could dream of with their eye's close but not to be pinch for awakening
because their eye's where already open.
It's there the pain hurts because loving you exist no more.
That there is a void harder to fill and that's having you made everything seem so real.
All blocks is gone because so am I.
That you find nothing but an empty wall with no writting there with love but you
find a man lost in the moment.
Because their his love was strong for only one woman.
He never really understand why she loved if she really did but them words touch
deeply into a soul now torn to shred.
But his love still is that one day it finds it's way back where it belongs and he may live to
love another day instead of hating everything to which is now just life to him.
But to love that specail woman that makes his world go round and time stand still because
there she was everything.
That now it's all just a dream.
I Love~ them words doesn't even matter because thats all they was.
Were something to hurt the being because there it really doesn't exist but in the mind
because my heart bleeds river of blood.
You're writing on pieces of paper
Your left arm, not your right
You were right-handed
But sadly, not tonight
Your hair shivers and itches
Every moment you breathe
You shake and you wrangle
Trying hard to see.
But your bubbling vision fades
With great pain, and haste
Slowly they tumble out
Free from your wake
But you push them aside
And they fall just like pleasure
The game isn’t fun
And you have to take measures
Then there’s itching,
Again,
You grimace painfully
Your hollow skull is now itching manically
But your hand can’t stop writing
The last thing that you lost
You’ve seen a slice of heaven
Now witnessing its cost
Trembling pain rips through your body
It heats,
and you shake enough,
to leave scratches on your page
But you have to continue,
Cold bone slices through gummy meat
Every crevice from brain to soul
Is warming up, and growing teeth
Molars, wisdom, sharp and dull
Are ripping teething as they grow
And pain is taking root and hold
Words escape your hollow mouth
Your skull, its jaws are hollow, shut
And your right hand
Makes a ripping sound
And blood pours on your neck
As it raises,
Your toothy smile looks at you
With humming eyes
That clatter with pain
And you can’t open your eyes in fright
For your last thought is fear
Fear you didn’t write enough
Fear what's left is teeth and blood
Not paper,
Or pen,
Or a name,
Or memory,
Of what was written.
But a broken pile of teeth and mud
Watched by eyes from heaven above
Laying on the floor,
Rotting like pleasure.