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Woman Social Poems | Social Poems About Woman

These Woman Social poems are examples of Social poems about Woman. These are the best examples of Woman Social poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Verse |

Secretly Obsessed

Obsessed with the thought of you
wondering if it's only me or
if you sometimes remember the sweet things you've said
and if you meant them how I took them
or if I'm just obsessed with what's in your head

Obsessed with your very sentences
Every response I take personal
I know it's selfishness
Have you not noticed my eyes?
They hold secrets that only you can unlock
if you'd just take time to fill the thick juices of my pride
It's just boiling with lust, passion, trust and distrust
and other things I obsess over so much

I find myself writing to free myself from this prison I've created
where only you and I reside
I become confused about what I'm really feeling inside and I 
try to rid the thoughts that are highly debated as false and I
begin to cry and
think of casting love spells so that the universe can deliver this affair
I know it's unfair
but I don't care

I'm obsessed with what hasn't happened between us
I'm obsessed with your heart and that the fact that 
I don't think you've even noticed my selfish innuendos 
and secret undertones that blatantly express my lust
Or maybe you have and you calmly remain in resistance of distrust 
If you could only read my mind by simply touching my fingertips,
I'm sure I'd catch you out the corner of my eye biting your bottom lip
I'm obsessed with the passion and thoughts I think you have
Obsessing over an experience that I may never have....






Details | Monorhyme |

A Woman, With A Bucket

A seed was kept, by a pretty woman, in her pocket
As she goes, up and down the stairs, with a bucket

For nine long months, she has it, inside her pocket
Till she finally lost her strength to carry the bucket

When the seed popped up, from her maiden pocket
She promised herself, not to let it grow, in a bucket

Though, there is still great pain, in her worn pocket 
She continues, even she’s weak, to carry the bucket

To the man of her life, she entrusted him her pocket
Till she went broke, nothing left, but just her bucket

Worst, the conman planted a seed, inside her pocket
He left her, when she has nothing, but only a bucket

Times has passed, the woman has gained her pocket
Because of a strong-willed mind, to carry the bucket

She has a fine young man, the seed, from her pocket
He is matured and never felt ashamed, of her bucket

When the beloved Romeo learned, of her full pocket
He returned with promises, of help, to fill the bucket

Too late, his own seed, he had planted, in her pocket
Will not accept him, for leaving them, with a bucket

No more love for the man, who likes only her pocket 
Nor, for the man, who left them, because of a bucket

Will you pity the man, who has but an empty pocket?
Will you pity a woman, who carries her own bucket?

Will you hate me, if, I wish not to share my pocket?
Will you love me, if, I leave you with only a bucket?

Never rush to a person, who minds only your pocket
Nor, love a person, who has no guts to hold a bucket

For it is not so easy to be a seed, in an empty pocket
Nor easy to witness a mother carries a loaded bucket

She was a pretty woman, who once had a rich pocket 
Thou abandoned she gave her son a life, not a bucket









Details | Verse |

Ding Dong The Wicked Witch is Dead

Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Thatcher’s dead.

Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Thatcher’s dead.

Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Thatcher’s dead.

Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Thatcher’s dead.


Details | Italian Sonnet |

Dream Forever

Thee, are my deepest emotions; taken beyond; my control.
Thou do express love; sweeter; than view of sunshine.
One single touch, from you, feels so fine.
No thoughts of your face would ever console.
Desires; that when I see you, I fight to control,
My heart; is blinded by numbers more than nine.
My soul is bound to you with more than twine.
Thee taketh my senses, beyond, compression of coal.

My blustery habits; are taken; when I see thee, with him.
Coal contracts to brilliant diamonds from pressure, we are told.
My heart aches for thou, under the pressure of seeing his kiss.
No brilliancy of any treasure shines; only a full moon goes dim.
My desires are real; though they have no growth; in gold.
Thee, shall be my dream forever, though I shall have no bliss.


Details | Verse |

My Words

Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words, 
and not necessarily my reality;                                     
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing

You can be who you want to be on any level 
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;  
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys,                                                                        or places that some don’t even think exist

They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry 
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart 
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses  whether they are just cases, 
or me in the absolute right here

My words exude positive intentions; 
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections 
and reversed dejection  
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul 
and temptations

Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before         
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect 
according to divine order

They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time 
because up until now, 
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time 
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside – 
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice 
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words


Details | Rhyme |

Would You Have Sex With Me

"Would you have sex with me?" I asked the woman adorned in her dress of fine lace.
She approached and proceeded to smack me right across my face.
I saw another beautiful woman and asked her the very same thing,
which resulted in my getting smacked across my face again.
Over and over I asked many beautiful women the very same question,
and over and over the result for me was always the same.
I was then approached by a gentleman who then did ask,
"What are you, some sort of sick and deranged masochist?"
"No," I replied, "I'm an optimist.
It only takes one to answer Yes."


Details | I do not know? |

Daddy is a bi sexual barebacker

Daddy who are you?
 
Son I am a bi sexual man..
Dad what does bi sexual mean?
It means I like to have sex with men & women.
Why?
Because its how I  feel inside.
Did you love my Momma?
Yes...I did!
What happened to momma?
She died...
How did she die?
She died of AIDS!
How did she get AIDS?
I gave Hiv to her..
Why would you do that?
Because I am a Bi Sexual BAREBACKER!
 
 
 
 WRITTEN BY TG GREEN
 
 
 This happens too much!
If your playing with him be safe..so she can stay negative.. 
 
 
 


Details | I do not know? |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...

hope...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)


Details | I do not know? |

The Women



The Women



(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)



Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.



They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,

and white was right in South Africa back then,

but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.



You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.



You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,

my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.



You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.



Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.



I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.



I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.


I salute you!



(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)






Details | Rhyme |

I'm Not the Kind of Person God Wants Me to Be

I’m not the kind of person I need to be! There’s too many problems inside of me! I’m not the kind of person you’d want to know… I’ve too many worries and a troubled soul! I’m the kind of person who has a lot of stress! Lately, my life has been one big mess! I’m the kind of person who doesn’t have a friend. You listen to me now… But may never see me again! I’m the kind of person who’s gone through pain! I wake up some days, and don’t even know my name! I may not be the kind of person you’d want to be around. I may get discouraged, and “get you down.” I’m the kind of person who’s giving Jesus a chance… I know he loves me! Whatever the circumstance! I’m the kind of person who needs a lot of prayer! I know that God listens! And is always there! Please help me Jesus! That I may be set free! May it be your love that others will see! Thank you Jesus! For being my savior and friend! You’re someone that this person can always depend! I’m not the kind of person that Jesus wants me to be! That’s why I need more of HIM! And LESS of me! By Jim Pemberton


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