Matured Poems For Matured People

Some people like having something matured to read , so that is why “Matured Poems For Matured People” has been made speccailly for them.

I am not just a girl…

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…

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Finally Come So True

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.

matured poems

Horse Man – Silver

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

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End of Innocence

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

To conscience

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.

Orchard Shade

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

The short life of love: not a romantic story

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.


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