Authenticity poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of authenticity poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on authenticity are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
One day it will all make sense. The sun, the trees, And the morning breeze on a long summer day. Every single thought running through your head and all the words left unsaid will unravel. Regrets will fade away, Decisions
I witnessed the death of the universe… Tumbling, crushing, spinning in the maddening chaos of the spiral Time! Eternity… ceased to exist, Time… was no more, my soul ripped asunder the stars… show no more! Pleading internally I succumb my
A silent wrath sits in a pool of blood, will start a battle over the footprints of sponges who soaked the history. The flow of endurance, lava on the tongue triggers discontent for a riot of spawned hunger. One transparent
Focused on burgundy palms as the age blinks, you start distressing on a unipolar pinnacle, biting the nails. The road absorbs the horizon. Perched on a controversial tree the birds break into small events to reach the grass roots. A
Northumberland to Newcastle And Cumbria’s lofty hills. Durham down through Cleveland To Yorkshire’s misty dales. Across to dear old Lancashire It’s Mancs and Scousers too. Cheshire, Staffs and Shropshire The Severn lands of dew Across into the Midlands Leicester, Notts,
The old familiar sting, O blues hits in moments spent beneath the willow tree torn out faces, worn out places these memories’ll burn till I’m ashes Now more than ever, O shooting star I wish to come home where kisses
The cough syrup and amphetamine Don’t seem to mix, in nineteen-ninety Six, and I throw up in the Communal showers, from Impurities. The sight Of the silver fish helped. Tony, in room eight, no longer Around. Dragged his corpse From
You will be amazed. Look at the western skyline! Back-dropped in a glowing soft pastel peach color. “What’s that?” you ask. The tranquil sound of Nature is what you hear, my friend. The serene honking of Canada Geese mingling with
When mired in jadedness Or weary of Truth, I sleep babe-like in your nakedness, O bosom pal of my youth; The nature of mothers in you Suckling my sleep! Or when dark empires above Shut my mind, I star-and-moon sketch
Dedicated to Chief Raoni of the Kayapo in the Amazon rainforest Is greed for money stronger than our signature? They wish to cut the trees to produce goods and furniture They will lose oxygen. This is a fact Chief Raoni
He was still paying the price for ultimate unbending. Before the black icon locked the waves to start tremors for an apolitical murder. He took the call and stood straight, stopped the melodrama of drinking the venom and became larger
You know I do not hope any intermission, between life and death. My path goes nowhere. A hiatus between the mirrors has questions. From childhood I was always floating between the meanings of lessons unknown. I longed for straight humilities.
Mid way up the mountain, I turned around. A solace breezed through the clouds, now older. This sudden amnesia covered in snow. This reoccurring season, was I ever changed. Now grown with age. The jagged edge between my fingers. I
I do not want to take you, either the road ahead, or lovely gyrations on low stage of voicelessness. The swoop of eagle on a little bundle, of chromatic fever: was it unbirdy? The tree of death grows taller than
I feel this ever looming wrath. It comes from within. Sure to destroy everything in its path. But as this soul would come out. The whisps of smoke will arise. Rotten a cadaver only will be perceived. A thousand clouds
Like a beautiful woman standing tall, wrapped with a shawl amidst the mist; there exists a seine between what is & what can’t be! And though it’s made up of mere words; it keeps one safe from rash assertion! Like
We make the rejected Love occupy our whole heart , while We ignore the true Love enacting from her heart We dream fantasy and console ourselves for the snubbed Love , while We shatter her dreams and show scant respect
We always glorify the bygone days We refuse to believe the present is as beautiful and worthy as past We Live mostly in past and dream only of the future We tend to overlook the past sufferings and only remember
Unimpressed by your lack of ambition I want to control, dictate your small mind Exploited, but fine with your position While our heads are foreign, our hearts combined Your mother, your dad grew up in this town Your father served
The troublesome soul is locked away and out of control. The unforgiving lies drive you to a loose depressing pride. The weirdness of lust is being swept like dust. The spinning of the head is driving you crazy damn is
Take two conditions. Place them facing each other. Join them at the tip. Make another similar pair. Place it adjacent To the previous pair. Join at the base. Then connect both the tips By placing another condition, On the top.
Flowers growing on the beach Some flowers are peachy pears Some are long and slim and sleek I swear I love every colour there Especially with long blonde hair The waves are gently lapping at their feet One two three
Somewhere Down Over South Hawthorn’s Way That’s where we would always meet at the dark End of the street in the moon’s shadow Teenagers sneakin’ some kissin’, some huggin’ And some lovin’ until the break of day and just A
One whom I know for ages wanted me to explain what friendship is all about Frankly I too was seeking an answer to it but stood helpless in asking the same Though I am unaware what friendship means I am
You’ll often see them running and chasing across the plains, a rabbit skipping and laughing at an eagle, in great pains. But why’s the eagle running, surely he can fly? Sadly he’s afraid of heights and frightened he may die.
The shells have not spared the lush slopes. There will be no flora left till dusk. The rocks have blocked the path behind. Chimney-climb not possible. The river-side is being bombed incessantly! A few bullets last in my pockets. And
Petersen House, Washington, D.C. (i admit to own a passion for the Civil War in general, and the life and death of the sixteenth president in particular). between a hard spot of whiskey and draughts of arrack nonetheless (without doubt),