Utopian poems bring the best collection of short and long utopian poetry. Poems for him and her and every poetry lover. These great utopian rhymes are so amazing they will touch your heart and keep you craving for more. Hope you find your own deep meanings in these utopian poems. They are decent, rhyming, free spirited and true. Thoughts on utopian are here for you.
Man is such a prisoner even when left alone to converse with his mind and heart. He claims to aspire for cordiality only to live up his distinctive contradictions. He goes through daily crusades with foreigners from himself who have
Dear Daughter, If I were the sunshine my golden rays would enfold you in my warmth, And fill your dawn with joy and happiness. If I were a flower, I would bloom in your garden, And fill your every breath
Tired ,frustrated from Life and job I have a Dialogue with God , With eyes closed, I ask , Dear God what is Happiness ? Is Happiness subjective and just one’s perspective. Or is it Utopian, With rich for more,
Whenever your eyes bleeds in tears, come to me without any dread fears. My arms are open and eyes closed, hug me to your heart and feel embraced. When your bleeding tears in my eyes shine your pains that you
United, They matched protesting non-violently, Teenagers and children, Fighting against anti-segregation, The filthiness of the ruling class, They could no longer sit and watch, As their homeland was destroyed These innocent souls, Unfortunately, Were victims of violence! Their homes had
How treacherous Often memories could be. The ones I needed most, betray And those not, stay. Yes I am talking of poignant And ugly memories. Between the ticks of time, They take turns to torment me. Even in dreams, they
It’s here, and then it’s not. That untimely moment that we fear our minds have just ‘forgot’ who we are, and why we’re here. Why did we never reach that bar? We’re no longer our own puppateer. In the past
Like the cold old mountains And the sorrowful seas Are there, forever, Immobile; souls and minds. I’m lost, Patiently lost. Like the tender fairy wind, Comes with such magnificent swift. Like the roaring river To be absorbed into the lover’s
Her body is the ever-punctured typewriter Pricked by the fingertips of lovers and liars alike, Since brick has been put upon brick to build – She has been made into verse. She is laced in souvenirs, splinters of a dismantled
1,000 memories come rushing at me, when I hear the melody and feel the beat of the drums. When I hear the poetry, and the love within the lyrics… when the guitar is being strummed. For anyone else, it’s just
All those years I underwent orthodontic care for naught cuz profound gum recession and bone dissolution found me fraught with an angst riddled necessity whence dentures bought or will soon bring relief, where financial cost to me = aught. though
About The Bottomless Pitcher One that never fills but still overflows…. A barrel of water for some A bucketful of tears for the other A pocketful of love for one A volcano of fears for the other How do I
He exists beyond my senses my body is drawn to corners sometimes spaces blocked by load-bearing walls yet most often to windows at early morning hours when the building opposite is barely illuminated forbidding as a cliff face or a
Roll up, roll up and welcome to the show Put your mind in neutral and go along with the flow The spin doctors are pumping out another remix on their digital decks Producers and directors using the full palette of
Another evening with hues of red merging into blue, blue morphing into grey, Grey turning black marred with tiny specks of silver I sit and watch this metamorphosis my eyes lusting for a streak of silver; a falling star –
I dance in glee, Wild and free, As a butterfly fluttered, Alighting on me. I close my eyes, In rapturous ecstasy, Of a moment that, Creates a magic in my soul. A brief spell of, ‘It’s beauty and love’, A
Were alcohol to be available only with prescriptions, imagine what would happen to the alone & the broken hearted? Each moment of loneliness and every second of pain, would have to be accounted for, and measured in units of spirits.
Wait, Wait.. Cynthia Lit up your lantern, Yet little more ..! Let me compose a line Just one and once Left conclude my rhyme – In the sacred hours of this night! Awake, Awake.. Darling, Amidst the time darkling, Stay
His memory brims my eyes The fuzziness engulfs me Jams my mind A rising dull ache The longing to feel him Connected and close By words by presence by voice In a lame chatter In nothing that is matter Behind
She walks the mystic shoreline Tides and seagulls Clouds lift the curtain of pain Rain and fog gone like decades I find her waiting for my dreams Dreams of fire to warm my lonely world Unfurled hearts with eyes bright
Racism is a poisoned thorn that is imbedded in the heart of America. At first glance, it appears the thorn is merely a sliver creating a small amount of—discomfort but not really a wound worth considering after all, it will
Where thou are My creator and my god from the moment you knew I am never a second you unthought me my tantrums; you smiled my attitudes; you redirected you knew me better than me your love boundless selfless yet….
Step aside. The white flowing mane was going to become the adrenaline. Fear of silence was turning into a green wound. The dissenting life-blood has vandalized the moon. There was a provocation from the black stars. The leopard was ready
Where every breath weighs a ton. Where each step takes forever. Where every voice is raging against you. Shouting at you. Disgust. Hatred. Doubt. Where gravity is weak. Where the light is a lost battle. Where memories are replaced with
My tomb is spread with bear’s garlic I was once a scourge of smoke the margins of the forest are lined with sharpest light city folk shriek and bleed my sepulcher is a woven oval ancient beeches clutching shoulders crooks
O life, O beautiful lie; Blinding light, release me from your tight embrace, For even the light deceives us, leads us of its own vices Under the guise of splendour and the veil of grace. I have broken down, and
There we met, at street seventy seventh; my friend who’d bowed down with altering features, and me with my clothes getting narrower. We could not find, in this chilly present, a tale to help us recline on the pavement’s stone.
Often yet not frequent, I’d see this young delinquent, An exact image of whom I were most recent, So to say that I stare at my past thus avoiding myself at that instant. That very moment, Ne’er ought I insinuate
That fake encounter takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness and terror strikes you when you were looking for the healing torch. Clutching the old rags of history I sit on the pyramid of bones: somewhere the sanity puts up
If only he knew that day’s outcome; That his migraine so intense, would make him ignore the alarm’s sound; That he’d be heavily traffic-bound on his way to work; That he’ll get in the boardroom and see seated, his expectant