Stolen Glances
A thought, or maybe a far-off dream?
Is she half-awake or sleeping?
The atmosphere is reticent.
Her posture is provocatively alluring
Yet innocent; even the cat laps quietly.
There are other things in the room,
Insignificant and commonplace.
But obviously, it’s her legs;
With one foot on the floor
And the other spread on the footstool,
With her skirt lifted revealing her underwear;
As she relaxes, leaning back in a chair
With her arms raised; and fingers intertwined
As her hands rest upon her head
And her closed eyes revealing
That faraway gaze and satisfied look
On her face in an endearing pose
That glances steal at a moment’s notice.
That begs the question,
“Is she deep in thought
Or is she dreaming?
Is she sleeping, or not?”
The soul's deep, emotional, wailing pain;
No one sees that it reigned in with sin.
The dire need for this emotional pain
To wane arises again and again.
The evil sin contained refuses to leave its domain.
When will the stalking of this emotional pain finally end?
Asian
American
African
Middle Eastern
Pacific People
Islanders
Now, They are White
Inflated egos heads are swollen
Deception rife our freedoms stolen
To insane masters our lives beholden
From within self love we must embolden
Create a truthful joyous life that's coloured golden
What they do is different
From what they preach or say
Their teachings are brainwashing
Because they don't act accordingly
Only the blind and those asleep
Are their sheeps and slaves
The awaken and the seers
They always wrestle with.
If you don't go their way
They're going to come for you
Forgetting that, even
When you do what they do
You can't do it like they did it
There are many ways to do things
The best way is doing it your way.
The best way to lead
Is leaving a legacy
For the people to follow
Not inputting fears into the people
Or creating laws to control them
So you can carry out your propaganda
We all already know the golden rule
All we need is knowledge
To build heaven here on earth
Hosea 4:6 My people perish
Because of lack of knowledge.
A Lineage of Vultures from Hell
I crossed an ocean to unearth my roots,
To find the branches of my hidden tree.
Thirty-eight strangers wearing friendly suits,
Thirty-eight wolves who smiled to welcome me.
In that old village, secrets wore a mask,
Their cunning eyes disguised as open doors.
But stripping me was their intended task,
To leave me bleeding on their wooden floors.
"You're filthy rich," they hissed into the cold,
While robbing every treasure that I kept.
They traded blood for silver and for gold,
And showed no mercy.
You have stolen
my love
my soul
my whole being
with your ungrateful heart
after I have given you everything
your tongue held so many lies
it was the weapon of your choice
Delicious whispers
provoke the tranquil night air
as lips swirl on lips
busy hands search flaming flesh
firing wild scorching passion.
(in Senryus)
With poetry we
can take God’s gorgeous sunsets
and make them about us.
With poetry, sad
ness isn’t edited for
your convenience
.
.
A song for this:
Born at midnight (every time) by Born At Midnite
The running rose blooms under sunny skies
Each soft petal's beauty to heart ties'
As both nostrils fill with pollen
To enjoy its wafting scent now stolen
Great ideas have gone untold
Until one day when they unfold
Through the minds of plagiary
Comes great ideas- dishonestly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The hallway hums with ghosts of feet,
a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet
The wallpaper peels like ancient skin,
revealing maps where time has been.
A teacup left in midnight’s grip,
still warm—as if just from the lip
of someone who turned out the light
and stepped into the sheer of night.
The floorboards creak a coded name,
the dust conspires to hide the blame.
No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb
the stairs, in sync with stolen time.
And if you listen—really strain—
you’ll hear the house breathe once again:
a sigh that bends the candle’s glow
toward the door left long ago.
Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more.
The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns.
A girl's impish smile,
A knowing glance at the stands,
A stolen, sweet kiss.
Plagiarizers, not short of stolen works ~ Poems are infinite!
Trapped in a cage, viewed as animals
Plot twist - they were actually humans
Mocked, laughed at, seen as jesters -
Except it wasn’t entertainment -
Just pure cruelty,
To them it was a joke,
For us it was a humiliation ritual
No autonomy, no freedom, no rights
They were reserved only for the whites,
Our skin was the target of bullying,
Disrespected, as if being black meant we were the enemy
To them we were,
To them we were ‘inferior’ -
Just a means to an end for their enjoyment -
Like a comedy show, where we are the comedian,
Except we don’t have to speak to be funny,
They saw our skin as a hilarity -
Their idea of fun, was our suffering
If the conditions were to kill us,
They would see it as a bonus,
Rating our deaths as if it were a performance,
Conditions in the cages were poor,
But the treatment of us - even poorer,
To the oppressor it didn’t matter, as long as they were continuously entertained,
They were happy
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.