Yearning Poems - Poems about Yearning

Still I Reach – Memories of my Father. My Dad — a virtuoso, once hailed among India’s finest — was one of three English gentlemen credited with bringing Western classical music to India, helping to lay the foundation for a tradition that would echo for generations. His artistry shaped the sound of a nation, and his...

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Some say you are the best one, sure have you a try, you got curves that imprison every straight man’s eye. I thought we’d find our own path, to see each other’s worth, but we were just so different that it all felt like work. Both sides of every issue, soon peace and quiet died, sought solace in the bedroom, the sex a pleasant lie. Suppose we...

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i try and paint you in a bad light inside my head to create a reason to get over you but no matter how hard i try all i can think of is you you consume my mind take control of my speech i will always drift back to you no matter how hard the universe can rip...

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We met by a stream in the midst of a dream faded into morning’s mist O, how we yearned to kiss...

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YEARNING ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Upon the cliffs she stands, whispers of salt and time curling around her. Below, the sea murmurs, the burdens of yesterday swept away by foamy tides. The gulls cry out, a chorus of freedom. She stretches her arms wide, inviting the winds of change. Here upon the edge, she continues standing a seeker in the twilight, yearning for answers within. Upon this precipice, she surrenders becoming...

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She spent so much of her time in her mind wildly churning fantasy with deep yearning which she spun like useless twine, then grew old, never learning that her dreams, like clouds, had dimmed joy with which life might have brimmed....

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On dark, cold soil, atop the soaring green turf, lay cold, rusty, nostalgic houses. The path that led to them was faded and shallow, with the feeling it could cave in at any moment. Scattered along that path were derelict vehicles from different eras each one different heaps of life. Fog filled the houses. It filled the cars too, like a raging campfire, too sinister to be put out. And yet here...

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Deep down she was a hopeless romantic Masked with hate because she thought she couldn't have it After all she was a black woman When she asked the world for love it laughed at her It's why she gave up, a story so tragic Growing up in a world where white was the beauty standard And being black was...

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To love someone who no longer loves you is the cruelest trick played by the world. I didn’t know you wanted me that way, I thought you only cared for my body, so I found another who seemed to want a connection. I should’ve told you then how I love you so, I wish I...

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Her skin drinks light like rivers take rain, each dappled edge and sun-struck curve, a landscape under my hands, soft yet severe, where desire meets the edge of breath. Fingers trace the small hollows of her hip, catching sunlight in each soft valley, dipping, trembling, as if they might slip into some dark, endless tenderness. She is a map of quiet fires, a fever...

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Your coffee cup still sits on the kitchen table— the one you slammed down that Tuesday morning, saying *I can't do this anymore*, coffee splashing across the crossword we'd started together. Week One: I scrub the stain with bleach and fury, curse your name into the empty rooms. Week Six: I catch myself setting two plates for dinner, pause halfway to the cabinet, my hand suspended in the space between habit...

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You arrive like the first word of a language I didn’t know I was born to speak— the way you bite your thumbnail when you lie, how your keys jangle three times before the lock gives in. That Tuesday glance splits me clean: before you, after you. Your laugh tastes like the last cigarette I never smoked— bitter, necessary, harm I’d choose twice. I follow your perfume through morning streets— vanilla-cedar, armor-scent— until I’m...

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In a sea full of green, so wide and still, Where every leaf leans to the wind’s will, They whisper the rules in rustling tones, “Grow alike, sway alike, don’t stand alone.” But somewhere beneath that uniform sway, A pulse beats red in a quiet display. Not loud, not proud—just power contained, A fire untouched, a soul unchained. The green is safe, a...

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while my heart sometimes breaks for a time when my love was innocent and flowed from the breathless dreams where I let the light carry me, whimsical hues of what it means to see beautiful in the hearts who know love is free! ...

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To Mr. Michael, Bard of Theatrical Yearning, Your words, like ivy, wind and wind — ornate, impassioned, almost divine.?But I write now with a quieter pen, one that bleeds not drama but truth again. You call me complacent — a muse asleep??Dear sir, I have only grown quiet to keep?From drowning in tides too high, too fast,?Where...

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