Brothel poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of brothel poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on brothel are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
Brothel It was a street of ecstasy walked through by me whispering to others the oldest tales of body and lust every room of mine swinging from green to red as the confessions of sperm counts splashed the stories over
My name is Richa… Does it really matter?! It could’ve been Mala …Seema…Sita..Nirbhaya or even Chabili.. In the end I would’ve been married to a much older man.. or abandoned after impregnating in a forest.. I wash utensils …clean floors..
The vagaries of life had shattered me down, Made me a coercive slave, submitting to dealers’ erotic frown, But I felt those moments with an absconding pain, As you came to, my life of lame. Your night of birth was
She knows how I feel, She know that its real..! But fate knows it better, Of what it has to cater..!! Chaos reigns in this love, Circumstances written from above..! We hope to change it, But dare not disrupt it..!!
A plaything it maybe for you Fiddling fidgeting is all you could do Taking for granted hurts it too But it doesn’t sit all quiet in the blue Longing for your attention Sitting rusty and dusty for Your moods to
You tried to drop by yesterday, So sorry I wan’t home, You left a note so you could say, I don’t have to feel all alone. I have to admit it’s probably true, Nobody understands, Nobody “gets” me like you
I still remember when we met first time on the beautiful sea-shore I was so fascinated by your sweet voice and cute gestures as if I had been devoured by your soul and suddenly I was drowning in a torrid
Perhaps I am crazy, I sought the limit of the boundless ocean, I implored the river to stop for a moment to listen to the music of my soul– Perhaps, perhaps Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow there is
A sound In an empty room, Hollow space, Emptiness. Panic. Silence broken, By what ? A thud, Rooms no longer silent, Hassle and laughter, A gun shot. Once again silence But only for a second Screams erupting. Sirens in the
Winterlude From November to March winter-green and winter-grey for all the things you never say, winter-silver and winter-gold for all the secrets left untold, winter-snow and winter-frost counting all the thing we’ve lost, winter-love and winter-pain washed away in freezing
Infrangible God! And frangible I! O, would we are not Bound as one mindedly eyed Spacetime knot! Parallel minds cross voids as pens That cut as swords! In our déjà vu head portends Spacetime discords; Plural mind! I tire of
Some always want everything to go their way like the biggest protagonist And spend sleepless nights in search of a way to be the biggest antagonist Expecting to maintain their luxurious and privileged life styles like a true monarchist Yet
My life was a bit of a calamity, I was on a loosing spree, nothing I could foresee, thinking, is this it for me? Then flash a glimpse of Infinity. Still, I wad walking a tightrope, head hanging down, I
A toddler unrobes the secret of death. Modifies the circadian rhythm of honeybees, opens the daisy clock. Cage of tears. The virus had the acrid odour of sulphide. Decay. It never happened before. Spring was helpless. Primrose forgot to secrete
People appreciate your work when you die. Or they praise with grudging admiration. So my words make them envy, before I say goodbye, I might as well burn them alive. I cut box and add excit to ing, Inexplicable, take
Tonight I will not sleep I will call you in my eyes. My hands were trembling when I opened the book. Words you uttered long back tumbled out ashen-faced. I started burning inside. Where did we take a wrong turn?
The winds whisper and sights release music of song Perceive, loneliness has its own melody ever strong Suboor captures that first in heart then in camera Inspiring it became, it’s a meaningful panorama Reminds me of great writer who wonderfully
It’s like breathing: At odd times you become aware – Not after jogging up seven floors Or escaping an accident With exhilaration, not regret, Those times are givens – Rather existing within a crowd In the audience before a play
How to begin the journey of truth? it was moving away from all paths. No concrete answers were there, questions loomed large, a moaning confusion reigned. I moved inward, to open the door, I had to talk to my poems.
Remembrances… A wild laugh, needling rain, choked breath, flashes of pain. Memories slumber, dreams drain! A past I hold, tied to my back. A heavy bulging, under the skin, sack I walk past the stories, of flowers and song A
Going through life In a catatonic haze With grim determination avoiding every one’s gaze With a hard shell around you or is it an iron wall? Surrounded by people but no one to call Afraid! Afraid! Afraid! Expecting the worse
It was just her fifth birthday, When she learnt to search for truth, And she questioned everything she learned, From then, right through her youth. She asked who had decided, Only boys could play in dirt, But her mother said
Confused , lost , bloodshot eyes , A wanderer insomniac driven premise , Supreme anxiety , thumping palpitations, Pointless life dictated inhibitions , I Came at your doorstep, A depressed human being , A lifeless soul, Devoid of objectives ,
Burning bones blood settles upon the ashes Don’t you cry girl it’s life that passes Bullets shot in defense of masses One day child they’ll take their chances There’s a new voice that whispers power for fascists England is a
Plethora of other’s misery too afflicts in some form Improbable to brave fury stuck in eye of the storm Setting right all courses own turns terribly wrong With tide stuck in vortex best let go to flow along Untying few
Before some three or four-odd days Began the nature show some craze. The people, truly afraid, to say, Nowhere did find a place to stay. The initial portension was a fire, That left a pile of ashes and mire Of
He walks down cobbles and blows bubbles for a pilgrimage of constant troubles, closing doors to tax men, running for milk floats, shunning almighty bible bashers, paints the flags of east London fascists Charlie chicken soup with a head like
Watching the charred remains of the toys you want me to search for another house. Eventually I decide to go for a voiceless door. Who was calling whom? Eternity hurts me. I want to come to a stop, pause for
Poignant dreams chased by fictitious self; Serendipity of mind breaking the veneer of heart Vainful self once taking a back seat; Though not for long But the veracious sun does smile through Minuscule though it may be to me; Shallow
They say poetry doesn’t pay , A hobby for slacker’s bay , Frost projected it as condition , Far from being called ‘ real profession’ . Advised to bring out the writer , Write pages, words , Ensure some monetary
Leave your worries by the shoreline, And run your bare-feet through the sand, Let the water be a soft bed, When you cannot bear to stand. Make friends with flying seagulls, And hold the sun up-to your palm, Before you
We are not mere sepals, petals, and pollen-grains As scientists view us under their microscopes, But a flower, with all faculties of beauty and life, A full bloomed blossom, the expectations and fulfillment, The long cherished dreams of a plant
Have you tasted the silk in the pit of snakes? Exit was not in my fate. Winter was kissing my toes and spring was blooming down in my estranged poems. You don’t feel like to wake up for ingrained disbelief.