Selfbelief poems that are original and profound. Explore a brilliant collection of selfbelief poetry that you can’t stop reading. These poems on selfbelief are published by poets from all over the world and are sure to keep you High On Poems!
The biggest discredit to one’s own self is to not be ‘ yourself ’. To strive to be like someone is the biggest injustice, ever done. To be your own biggest critic. To judge with an impossible yardstick. To never
In lunatic scape of fringed labellum the creeping malignancy was advancing. i missed a rendezvous with moon when you had brought a blue kiss from abducted lips; again I become a sisypus lifting the rock off your comets of round
We played the game, threw the dice at times we got lucky with the game. although caught in a web of lies… though a picture locked in a frame. Life gave pain, left us with misery, and empty people fought
When humanity first became aware, the world was a scary dangerous place. Everything was a mystery, nothing but survival at stake. We created gods to help us make sense. Gods became the catchall to explain the unknown. Gods became religions
In the London fog she walks like light Light as soft as the lofty stars Dreams are haunted Liverpool ships Herdwick sheep bleating by Lake Windermere She sounds the bells of destiny Oscar Wilde with a black cane Morose of
All braced to face the day, The diurnal engine ignited, Gently revving up, Barging into the quietude Of the colony, With a daily prayer escaping His mumbling lips, As he steered mildly Into the road, To see a car pulled
Let it remain ovarian pure. After strangulation the truth, for hypoxic euphoria. Flies in your face the dirt, the denial, the terracotta of superposition of speech, hiding self-interest. Blackened Crozier for wrinkled crotch, drops the ashes of love on unopened
Waiting for the rain for rain drops to fall on my face to hear the rat-a-tat on the roof to see everything turn green Am waiting for the rains.. When thousand souls come alive cradle of life brims over Am
A year has passed since she lost what made her an avis; A lot has happened since the tragedy and the crisis- Still she has nothing at hand and feels aimless! How is it that solving people’s problems is her
She came in pieces In the flitting moments Flying at the speed of mind Leaving a ruffled heart A purpose she gave A path she carved A journey to trek To find her yonder She appeared like the mayamrug Of
There’s a Christmas in my heart That keeps burning The candle of sweet joys And hopeful days, blissful memories of the past Like an eternal shine Of the happiness divine Dispelling, The darkness within And I shine like a sun
Sun spreading its colourful rays, Slowly dispersing in water at pace, The clouds saluting its attitude The waves tuning its magic magnitude, It’s time for Sunset! It’s time for Sunset! Blowing breeze carried text of peace in it, Foot stamps
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.
Before going , the despair suffocates our love and pumps depression doses in kisses In our addiction We lived together the brightest eras of love The addict lovesick was attacked by infection After the end of love I gave up
Could be in the past May be in present too You and me disagreed We quarrelled, fought Argued in bitter words For we all wanted to Make our World better Perhaps never realized A simple point to ponder That’s universal
The flesh was putting up a brave dialogue. I was willing to play the game. Stunned, shocked, pleasantly sore basking in heat of silk throat, I asked the needles to go ahead and stitch the wounds without loss of blood.
In the art of letter writing, is a hand that writes it, pouring out the heart, through a sea of beautiful feelings, surrendering the soul. It is like an intricately woven lace of intense emotions, across the flowery page, that
I’m a temporary guest, I will one day fall and distinguish, But you don’t deserve this title, because you are going to be here, you have the power, to turn evil into goodness, your destiny is different from mine, I
Mrs Murphy stares blankly out through the backyard door The pigeon coop stands open since her children went to war Pals and chums filled the streets from Old Swan to the Albert docks The sons of the Liverbird leaving in
February, had just bid farewell to its 29th day, Knowing that it won’t see it for next four years And that’s why I guess the night seemed a bit longer And silent, and calm, and the wind chose to lazily
I opened my eyes upon the world My tiny fingers were tightly curled My eyes saw the brightness and quickly closed Sounds all around me filled my ears unopposed I opened my mouth and let out a cry As hands
The holes we create within our lives Whilst struggling with all the lies A patchwork of building blocks That sometimes make us have to stop And take into our own account Perhaps with help we can surmount Though fear we
It was your integrity at the time of ubiquitous pain of separation, you want to move the home away from home coming to terms with the trauma your shadow was not following you playing dead nuzzling the earth, racing to
Under the shade he spoke vehemently and coherently, He was cautious to please them and they weren’t late to applause, Thousands and thousands flocked and the weather not favourite, They weren’t under shade and drops of rain landed on them,
In time warp, to find the fell of a dark moon my thoughts bring out a birthday gift. The first step in fog discovers the sharp edge of kindness. Who will believe this black and white, suicide of a sage?
Remembering the days of old, when father raked the leaves of Golden, yellow, brown and orange Jumping into the huge crisp pile, I tossed them all about As my father raked them on top of me I would creep out
Some say the Garden of Eden was a myth, that such a beautiful place never existed. The Universe is a cold forbidding, inhospitable place, a place filled with frozen gases, balls of fire, cosmic radiation that can fry one alive,
You know that sickening stench that comes from a corpse girdled to a steel gurney as, slowly the morbid form degrades and still waits for that last living cell to give in, to wear out or may be just dissected
Longing and wanting to be with the one you love while your heart breaks and shatters at the sight of his back gets further and further away days turn into weeks weeks turn into months and months into years so
THE WHIRLING STORM OF EVIL From the dark recluse in my thatched mud hut I barricaded myself; with the palm of my hands pressing tightly against my ears, vainly trying to shut out the mournful tune of the dirge playing
A skylight begins the apartheid in ironed out differences. At the shores skulls have reappeared. Blue flames were eating away the green carbon of the dying giants. Fake photosynthesis was canning the skimmed breeze in books and encapsulated euthanasia was
He is still leaning, without arms, on legs doomed to be broken. His profession is lively death, solitude and cold. He remembers nothing from his far past, except for birds’ songs, the rustle of pale leaves, the bubble of a