Some people like having something matured to read , so that is why “Matured Poems For Matured People” has been made speccailly for them.
Born as a princess, is every girl,
but a warrior arises in her at every fall.
Growing up she goes through good and bad,
fragile as she is, easily becomes depressed and sad.
All she wants in her life is protection, love and bit of care,
but this world is full of things, enough for her to be scared.
To look her best and attain some encouraging comments,
she starves and torture herself to end it with pain and disappointment.
She bears all kind of pain and sacrificing is her nature,
Whether she is a sister, daughter, friend, wife or mother.
Mostly taken for granted and is not respected,
by the criminals, she is often targeted.
From being a girl to becoming a woman,she changes a lot,
she is simply a bundle of love, joy, care and what not.
Often she is lost, disturbed and lonely,
a hug, reassurance and support is what she needs finally.
She carries around all kinds of burden,
Yes she is not just a girl, but a super human…
That’s why our Love we’ll share,
while we’re both perfectly aware;
that time is bound to change,
may our days not be so strange.
We know what we often think about,
it’s one another, without a doubt;
we have our life to Love and live,
to always share our Love we give.
It is Love we both thought of,
let us find shapes in the clouds above;
let us do the things soulmates do,
let us share this Love of me and you.
Don’t pull the blanket over your eyes,
one another we are hypnotized;
there are no lies seen in us,
we’ve always shared our Loving trust.
We know what we both believe,
one another we won’t deceive;
we do count upon what we do,
before our day finally comes so true.
We’re Sure To Share This Love Of Ours.
once there was a horseman, with a quarter horse knitted to his back,
grey Stetson, tilted back so sunshine bristled on his brow
smoke escaping from his nose
wild horses galloping out of his mouth
a bit of bellicose brag reined in for his woman
who parked her pointer finger, sideways
above her eagle eyes to search his horizon
but, oh, in the back rooms of the wheat elevator
chaff sidestepping on stray sunbeams
running a ragged race to tell the tallest story
of finest thoroughbred thoughts, running
against the next best for their trophy
Recommended for you:4 Mistakes to Avoid Making If You Want a Girl to Like You.
Whispers come from the two intruders on the beach
Laughter spiraling up into the dusky evening
Telling of secrets and jokes and the coming of an end
Red-orange fingers reach for her
The breeze darting into her ears
Telling her things she doesn’t wish to hear
Of chastity and waiting
But they are short lived
Her choices are made
Daringly flung into Fate’s ribbon
She listens to the crash of sea against rocks instead
Ebbing and flowing
Foam tossed into the air like a babe
The red of warning departs, sunset replaced by
The deep stage of night
Stars tossed into the velvet sash of the evening
The props set, the cove quiet
Just two of them and the shadows of doubt
Of half a mind to just sleep instead
The heady feeling of confidence disappearing
Under his gaze
His fingers skim the warmth of her hip
“You are beautiful.”
It is murmured against the soft smoothness
Of her belly
Her level thoughts scatter in the pull
Of a dance as old as time itself
The barest hint of the moon’s rim
Watches down as bodies arc
And in a field of hazy almost-dreams
Good-byes are said to innocence.
The orchard now in late fall bedraggled
Wind fallen fruit now hosted countless wasp
The ceaseless buzzing as they fed
Mom would sit on her wooden chair
Telling stories of when we were children creating ghostly visions
To stop our raiding of the sweet fruity treasures.
Stories that until this day prevent me from
visiting the orchards after dark.
In the sweetness and smell of the fruit and vines
It is hard to remember the poverty we endured.
And in its humble memories it is as sweet as the ripened grapes
Not bitter as the cooking apples
As the sun completes it arc over the hill
And dusk settles moms old chair is still there
And somewhere in the travels of my mind
I hear her gentle voice its southern accent
soft as honey dripping onto a desert
Telling a story so scary I would sleep
With my head under the covers that night
Never once considering a raid on the fruit laden orchard
If we cared a little bit,
we would have words
to the prophet a romantic speech.
But we don’t, we really don’t,
and we won’t change for love,
no, we definitely won’t.
It’s the life of two birdies
trying to become free
from each other.
It can be magical to say
that we love one another
anywhere and in any way.