Reader Poems

Are you educated? Have you an injured heart? Have you a purified brain? Do you believe in truth? Are you alone? Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic? Are you a secular person? Do you believe in democracy?

Beautifully romantic, Musically inclined, You are so poetic, Totally undefined. Your thoughts are so deep, Words you use are very unique, Your rhyming of words are like music to keep, A composition that gains a positive critique. The words you

Pinhead’s lounging in the armchair. Dreams waiting by the stair Pennywise is peeping through the curtains looking for children to scare Marvin is arguing with the kitchen door while Arthur Dent makes a cup of tea. Death has been hogging

Wasting words I want to be electronic; I can only be more robotic. Please try to fix my empathy; I have lost it. I am not hypnotic. I cannot make you feel this, Without giving away my secrets. We need

A word amidst verses, Coming to life briefly When the reader leases His mind and time solely. That moment of glory, Is transient like you; An unknown for many Very common for few. Alone it’s no meaning, A tale not

Dear readers, Reader’s Digests denote That readers read and clearly emote Their feelings out and try to devote Their money and time for this rowboat. The mind that reads it will surely vote Their success that is sure to roam

I wonder what’s it to be like a poet For I am called one… Is it to connect reality with Tough words that prompts reader Look up the dictionary? A one which has a rhyme scheme? A one which is

FITS AND STARTS For a cold winter’s day When you’re, maybe, all sad and forlorn, Here’s a tale, Which, to many, may not be known. It may not be a mystery, it may not evoke fear, But it shall make

Dawn did arrive and brought soft light across a sand-filled shore, but no one knew the sadness that the widow there did bore. The young new widow with bare feet and loneliness at heart, walked slowly down the sandy beach,

Writing may be a passion for me Reading the same may not interest him I do hope he appreciates my write ups But what if he doesn’t even look at my write ? Write ups satisfying self is like eating

Darkness and quietness all around me Except for your constant tick Doesn’t that painfully prick! So trick the play and take the pause I’ll applause and I swear not to be cross. You always march, night and day Where is

I’m meditating in a Boise coffee shop because I’m not writing well my thoughts are a smeary slide full of animalcules contained, self-important images that could fit into a list-poem full of suggestions that dares the reader to link meanings

The day I started writing poetry I stopped reading books As after that I started reading Many other things Like a person, birds and animals Sometimes I read trees, Sometimes a lake, Sometimes the whole nature My games have also

Chew Lawrence would disclaim that his first collection is a body of metaphysical poetry, yet his poems are metaphysical in that they pose questions about the fundamental nature of reality and posits the poet’s tentative answers concerning it. Unlike the

It is a foregone conclusion that the writer uses all five senses to create their work. However, I have found ( at least in my experience) that each sense exercised provides it’s own individual inspiration. Not to be over analytical

(as imagined by this lumpenproletariat) When no bigger then innocuous, ho hum, happy go lucky generic black whole sonny and cher full pinhead size zit, thine pluperfect promising mysterious seat of pants whodunnit wordlessly wise wedded waywardness writ partly apportioned,

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

About the book: These poems happened to me at random, insignificant moments. They are still damp, from loss. They manifest wild ways to look at ordinary things. I am picking up pieces of life And handing them over to you.

To put words down on paper, That can give a memory life. To recreate a moment passed, Long buried deep inside. To compose a verse so eloquent, It can cause a heart to break. And lead the reader to feel

About the book My Life and My Songs, which contains 75 English poems in very simple and lucid language, is published after my previous book ‘My Life and poetry’ – that had been admired by poetry lovers. This book intends

HighOnPoems launches Popular Poems Section. Read Popular Poems with highest reader ratings that are chosen by poetry lovers. All poems that have made it to this section are picked out for their interesting writing style, versatile themes and the connect

try me if you please as you are out spreading the disease plagued by thoughts of granduer with affectionate melancholy sparkling array of blissful care through the air my very soul permeates a reason for being amidst the changing of

And there I was crawling out of the wee hole down the earth, tired by the faith darkness and the humble warmth of the mother earth . It is sultry rather very torrid out here , the frozen blood of

Dawn did arrive and brought soft light across a sand-filled shore; but no one knew the sadness that the widow there did bore; the young new widow with bare feet and loneliness at heart, walked slowly down the sandy beach

Stop laughing Start crying Stop trying Start dying Giving up Now giving in All because you think you can’t win This race isn’t yours You don’t keep score Anymore You hit the floor You say “I can’t and won’t take

there is a smile below there is a smile above betwixt the heart of praise a lonely heart found love a soul devides then parts on every circumstance we can learn to take part in the dance in quiteness I

Dawn did arrive and brought soft light across a sand-filled shore, but no one knew the sadness that the widow there did bore. The young new widow with bare feet and loneliness at heart, walked slowly down the sandy beach

Comprehensive to common minds yet impressive. Creative writing demands appreciating. His composition is his recognition. Unknown to this world his designation. Nor noted he’s deserted. Exiled deep in oceans of literature, Get him a defibrillator. Too less like him left,

Emotional sequestration perseverates across thine time warped weft wise wold, sans interpersonal stagnation flourishes as oft twice told tale amidst derelict hollowed moldering sacrificed stranglehold did potential now bankrupt acquaintanceships/ friendships get out sold agonizingly excruciatingly jujitsu physically writhing front

Well if you think I’m cute and charming TELL ME… Don’t be shy, look me in the eyes and just TELL ME… Don’t be afraid to say what’s on your mind, you Just might be surprised, if you think I

If I were a Book, On the shelf, I would be overjoyed to meet new people everyday. Some would flip through, Some would read through. The fact that I would enter a reader’s mind, brings thrills. The thought that one

every year I used to visit a place down by the sea the boardwalk pier pizza stands with fresh fried dough expossed to the sea shell band with family & friends let the reader understand bars with beers flowing was

Unthinkable. Lithograph of a malaise. I cannot talk. Will you abandon the thought and care about the drowning dawn? The bandaged ego of the book threatens the reader. Come and solve the puzzle of poetry. Everything was quiet except the

It’s a beautiful town. a hobo in dirty gown He smiled at me he lives near alley he kinda smelly he looked so holy it’s shivering cold snow and rain never heard him complain he played violin gave him watermelon

Here we are A rainbow team A better life Our only dream Look up at the sky There’s a purpose there You can’t deny Stars are everywhere Bright eyes to glow To watch you grow A milky way To dance,

You were starving the words to commit the waves of hunger. What I wanted was a patch of shade under an olive grove. No intrusion. It was a miscarriage of justice. We were searching the – missing links between the

One’s Destiny has its own path which cant be seen while the road one is taking has its own path What can one do if the legs give away while walking on the path Someone tells me what should the

Just wait, is this me Well, all those years who did I see All the time I spent staring at you And the beauty staring back I knew Suddenly it’s not me Hair is balding, Eyes are squinting, Lips are

He was a lovely boy, sweet and sixteen; He had his birthday on July 18th… On his very birthday, little did he know his worst nightmares were about to be true; All of a sudden his house caught fire out

O’ what a sigh for good old brother Mike, Who once as a child prayed to god for a bike. He remembered in lamentation those years as a tyke How his parents were poor, so all he got was a

People crying in the east and west Few for the dreams built to be the best Few for the food or attack of pest Few for the losses with wounded chest Few over their davestated nest Pity for few and

When I was a raven, I flew out of the night, My ebon wings flashed and glistened in the light. The wind it held me high and carried me away, But not a soul would listen to the words I