Cynical poems bring the best collection of short and long cynical poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great cynical rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these cynical poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on cynical are here for you.
Let’s paint these walls red, With the blood of our dead. Of the lost and wounded, the sad and depressed. Let’s paint that chair green, With the leaves of the trees. The trees cut down, every day, week, month, year.
Incandescent lights stream across the stark blackened night breathing in the intoxicating smoke swirling around you; Deep cynical voices cackling manically rumbling through the dank dark corridors, phosphorescent lace velvet floating in the calm cool air; Tantalizing deep dank thoughts
‘Cede yourself to me, And you will never be alone again. You’ll be revered. Adored. Treasured. But you must give yourself to me- A willing concedes’, Fiend allures. My conscious says acutely ‘Don’t listen’ And for an instant I don’t
I find comfort in self pity. Belittling myself, my actions and even the mere five second thoughts of my success. I’m tied up by this part of me. The part I’m inevitably dependent on. It is the initial segment of
Guise like an angel, cuts like a devil Child-like, playful, so fickle as he tickle Sleek, dark, cat-like eyes Brows black as the chilly night Cherry-picking lips, decadent smile Little kitty, big bad leopard inside. Breathe-like stance, scary but not
Life alone is a desolate reign, feel no remorse, no fear, no pain. Dark lonely days and endless nights with no chance of living, or more pointless fights. My reasons, pure and simple. A growing need with mouths to feed;
We are the others, the never wills, the nothingness of death. We are nothing, you are less; spineless, useless, worthless, blessed. Burn it to the ground and ground it down; I love falling apart in your arms. Everyone is going
The rising waters envelop me, Frothing and bubbling around, Rushing towards the unknown, Seeking a final resting place. I try to move against the tide, But rivulets pull me resolutely, Like a mother dragging a child, Through the heart of
Passing by that deserted road one autumn evening My eyes caught sight of a forlorn tree All dried up without a single green leaf It looked pathetic and a picture of grief Lost , as if in the memories of
Somewhere and somehow, how and where I don’t know. But from ‘twinkle twinkle little star’, to the melody’a thing of beauty is a joy forever’we grow up. The past 15 years can be compared to the life of the ‘Brook’.
HUMANS OUT LOOK Happenings of the past brings in Nostalgics delight Some may be bitter some may be sweeter Some may be thriller some may be cooler One recounts any of these in a more relaxed way whether it was
I watched the wind having wicked fun today Stripping leaves from trees and hurling them like confetti Forcing flowers to frantically dance to any old tune Sucking up grit and spitting it in unsuspecting faces Snatching hats from the heads
An outcast, stripped and beaten up, the sickle moon smears the clouds with blood. I hate to wait for – the sun to undo this mess, an ethnic mutilation will bring a chaos. Nursing the peripheries, tribes were in pursuit
Sounds of the highway; so peaceful to me Warm cool breeze ; smell of the country air Mountain views; snow covered mountain peak Turkey’s talking; eating their feed loving the country Life; country air in the breeze. This is where
It was an elated evening Full of excitement and emotions filled, when my flight was landing Welcoming climate was pleasant but grew chilled It was my very first visit to Srinagar Which is acclaimed as a paradise on Earth When
Her arm was left out the window all night clamped at the pit which throbbed her heart hammering to do its job straining for the tiny capillaries going blue about the nail beds her arm flapped on the growing wind
Serene azure skies, dewy grasses and towering trees Divine, soothing and gentle is the forenoon’s breeze So fragrant is our soil, and couth is every rain Sightseers here buoyant on their visit remain The sun when yellows the unlit shadowy
A futurist virginity in black rose was seeking posthumous award for immoral kisses of thorns. Unaware of lethal thighs skipping the lunar landscape at night. Were you going to leap over the mountains curling across the glaciers of white pain?
What is God- thy name be there! Had you been your equal peeper. Debate, dispute, dueling mass! Over there to save their God, do muss. I laugh thinking, “God be saved!” Ha! But I knew else that we to be
In the ancient lives of the comrades who speak and heroes and sheroes who sleep, Sailed in the dim hopes of them who stood stubborn to believe did I, They lay captive at the merciless grip of the local oppressor
Her silhouette against the sun; while I stare at her perfect contour-lying on the beach tear eyed, Rays of sun-shine in the background; her shadow engulfs me with all its might; she smiles, Promises to return to me- I ado
Surely this is not just that– Brat of imagination Running amok?! I thought I saw a man Cajoling, indulging, Planting plans in my head! Then he disappeared In grey ashes and smoke Left-over embers of silence! Only me talking to
As the rain drops beat against the transparent glass of my encompassment yet evoking such peace, how I also yearn for a piece. My mind rumbles in all this mumble, a familiar mania, an ambiguous source of my insomnia. How
Across dark thresholds sleep my dormant dreams, Inspired by aspects seen while I’m awake, Epitome of sweetness, my love seems, That nectar bees seek earnestly to take; A flower bloomed from primal buds of May, And nurtured in the sun,
I was scrolling through the comments of a YouTube video yesterday, when, A random insult thrown at the YouTuber caught my attention – Aimed at him, was the proverbial swear word, not so subtly cloaked in the sheath called “woman”,
When a rose turns old petals fall but the rose bud remains and its beauty and fragrance leaves a lasting impression in our minds Sure the beauty and fragrance of a rose lasts but briefly but the rose garden goes
As the sun beats down on another glorious day, the blackbirds are singing in their sweet little way. The world is still and my mind is at peace, how I pray for this stillness as it offers such release. The
He couldn’t help wanting it pain of shame like a cinder Satan tucked it under his ribcage stray cats came and sniffed him he wouldn’t move pea gravel denting his patella there was another boy riding it back and forth