Secret poems revealing the concealed, camouflaged and disguised emotions of human mind through brilliant poetic expression. Poetry has been used to unwrap secrets of heart over the years with magical use of metaphors, coated with experiences and imagery. This collection of secret poems is sure to grip your senses and remind you of all the secrets you hold within. They might also inspire you to put down your own uncommunicated secrets lingering in your mind for long. So here’s a chance to delve into many secrets and find new perspectives through them. Hope you enjoy reading these secret poems.
My secret place is condensed by the deepness of the everglades, mixed with boldness of green Arabic sparks. My secret place is a place of comfort, a place of trust. Remembrance follows my innermost dreams. A place I can call
A string of colours attached together What a captivating and lovely sight To those eyes who see them as blissful oceans rivers and seas But not to those eyes who know the truth As the truth is not always the
I heard sweet voices sing Fragrance of wild flowers in spring A thrown of gold for a King To watch His courtier dance and sing The Queen sits by His side Watching the fair maidens Trying to steal Her pride
Ssshh. Don’t let anyone hear you. Don’t tell anyone about it. It’ll be our little secret My friends can’t know. Turned into they know we are fucking not that we are together. I’m just not ready yet. Can it be
Every night this body becomes a dissecting knife a crime scene of blood and unstrung flesh, the lamb spreads the wool for a deadly charge of skull plate with a gift of mathematics a moon cutout in sky before the
Ever gazed my eyes, to look, as grabbing as a hook. The secret beneath, what lies are vast silence and cries… Happiness always remained there, as a mask but you never dared to ask. Ever seen my face to see,
She wants to be remembered, A chant, a whisper, a name, She thinks to herself that if she really shut her eyes, Would the world notice she is gone? All the she hears are raindrops against the roof The rustling
‘Don’t create fog’, covering truth, people say, afraid of fog, For me, the invisible beauty, nothing to cover, but be here, With me, at least in the morning and evening, as my love, To cover ourselves, as we walk, embracing
‘Yes, I will sing of thee, So dear to me’s the theme, And distant years shall hear the lay By mountain, vale and stream..’ – Charles Spence, Perthshire, 1898 White Campion flower soaked fields in summer, They choreograph in the
At an early age something gone wrong Secrets were made and more to be found Those experiences that are supposed to shape your young mind Still create secrets that will hurt you in time People who loved you, you have
A silent whisper, I continue to be. A shadow missed, on the deserted street. A speck of dust, that nobody sees. In ancient trunks, and cobwebbed locks. I lie inside, a forgotten sigh. Through dirty nights, and foreseen dawns. I’m
Mmm.. The rich noir sugary waterfall gently flows Caressing the soft luscious bays of cherry red lips Imagine a calm, crystal-clear river, waves that smoothly glow The glistening moonbeam dancing on the oar’s tips Listen, as they gingerly part the
Thought that love was Sunshine and laughter Songs, blood moons and abrading stones Half-whispered words In the dusk of the Jacaranda tree. Thought that love was A magic mushroom of tenderness The daydream of a touch and The aberrancy of
As the night gets taller. … come let’s walk that extra mile. … oh, the sea, they tell, holds many a secret. …. a secret, they tell, die many a death under sea beds. Come, hasten, let’s leave the remains,
Life is a series of relationships, Which come & go as time drips. A consolidated sequence of life is lew, But the list of happy moments are few. Living life with that only one, And not an analogy of some.
When he comes, he visits her at night. Entering her personal space, uninvited but nonetheless welcome. She does not know his schedule; dreadful expectation. Absences unexplained. Too wary to search for answers, prepared to forgive for shared moments. His silent
It was bound to slip away, revealing more than you would have them know The farce so painstakingly layered to present a you even you wouldn’t recognise, A you, that you never intended to show. There is too much covered
The Seventh Day church built on the bend I curse at the perfection Alongside these potholes dug deep A cemetery for hope Down the road the Pentecostal one wore a hat It seems the years had stripped away all that
Nobody knows that I’ve been stealing glances of you That from day one I was always enamored of you. Nobody knows how I’ve been writing letters for you Letters that have heard how I longingly called for you. Nobody knows
The pomegranate burst apart in a shower of purple-red spray and blunt red teeth disproving the chic appeal of white upholstery we cleaned the crime scene long hours on our knees soaking cloths with tart white vinegar and dabbing away
All alone sitting on the edge of my bed My hands covering my face A moment when I silently pray to be invisible Moment when I feel like crying… Not many, but yes there are few such moments Appearing in
She judged her every step Her crumbled wrinkles and grey hair A story of a granddaughter and grandmother Her parents always sent her to her house The old shadowy house with a glittering stream grass to the knees and smell
I stare at the bride demure and dainty in her virginal veil. Lift my eyes a little to see her shed her modesty. Lusciously coquettish , an exotic eroticism as she sways to the rhythm of a wild vernal beat.
It’s one of those mornings that welcomes whiskey and soda with open arms. The Sun and I, more or less, feel the same way about getting out and conquering the world. ‘Well, it’s not our turn today’, we tell ourselves.
I’m watching us in my mind’s eye bound together like thunder and lightning to get away from the world and into secret places We’re gushing alive flaming flickering love bursting born leaving nothing to chance until we fade out. Then…
Up there, the mind of saints is telegnostic And thought is superluminally telepathic; Via sensorial communications anomalous Gnosis and mind are venially synonymous. All is public fare; the personal life is dead And every thought you surfed in your head
she couldn’t stop laughing and the electricity hoarded by her belly in secret crept to her spine and began to seep toward the nape of her neck where it would explode like mercury brilliant and ungraspable to lodge in those
An ode to Bhimsen Joshi You sing to the earth, it’s minerals, it’s metals, it’s pure stones. You sing to the earth, it’s sand, the yellow sand, the red sand, it’s rivers of sorrow, the waves, the waves that no
We escaped to the north shore of the California coast. Drove through the gates and said hello to the host. Slept by the sea and reclined in it’s embrace. Overwhelming enchanting breezes in our secret place. Viewed the ocean’s expanse
My gypsy soul, my gypsy soul, oh we are on the move once more. To hidden valleys and secret places, to hear the ocean’s almighty roar. I long gave up in denying the yearning of opening my wings to soar.