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Best Poems Written by Abdul Mannan

Below are the all-time best Abdul Mannan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

UNBURIED

Dead dreams deserve a burial,
But where do I bury them?
My peeving heart-It is way too heavy,
My disappointed eyes-they are weary,
Cherished memories - I really haven’t any,
Art isn’t my cup of tea.
Nor can I write poetry
Neither is my juggled mind ready.

Dead dreams deserve a funeral.
But how do I mourn them?
Bleed my heart or tie a knot,
Drink my tears or bawl eyes out,
Crush memories or leave them to rot,
pent up emotions or express my thought,
wander my mind or get it to dot.

Dead dreams are hauntingly ethereal,
But where do they dwell?
They linger in heartbeats,
in thoughts left to swell
Not lost, not vanished,
but drifting in air—In echoes of poetry,
in art laid bare.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

I Am Not A Brick

They shaped the mold before I arrived,
A perfect cast where all compiled.
I was meant to be poured, settle and fit,
But I hardened too soon and fractured it.
I stretched too far and pulled to wide,
Shattered their mold and stood defied.
They wait, watch and trace my lines
tracking my stance, weighing my fall.
counting the cracks that don't exist at all.

Their sympathy searches for pores in me,
slipping through, expecting decay.
Their fake pity settles like dust on me,
waiting for time to wash me away.

Society can keep chiseling me,
But you know what?
I am a weathered rock.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

The Last Slice

A velvet-heavy, honey-spiced cake
sat on a table spread vast.
soft enough for fingers to disappear into,
dense enough to still
even the most restless tongues.
Its candles flickered like stars.

No one asked who baked it.
No one wondered how long the oven stayed warm.
They just took— with knives that glinted like treaties,
with fingers that didn’t wait for plates.

Frosting smeared like territory lines,
plums dug out and hoarded,
their hands sticky with inheritance.

Someone wanted the cherry—
another, the coast of caramel.

Of course, they sang Happy Humanity to us,
clinking forks like medals,
smiling with mouths still full,
declaring the feast a triumph
without once glancing at the crumbs beneath the table.

The table itself is now a battlefield
of crusts and claims.
And the last slice sits on the chipped porcelain.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Stir Of The Starts

In the quiet nook of a loving home,
Is my small world-
fenced by iron bars,
and a limited sky.
Protected from storms
and predator’s eye.
Fresh clean water,
steady sunflower seed supply.
Almost a picture-perfect life.
Yet, I often sigh.

I yearn for lush trees,
and open endless skies.
Where the sun shines bright
And the moon climbs high.
I long to join the chorus of dawn,
spread my wings and fly.
I want to build a nest
with mud, leaves and twigs dry
Teach my younglings
to soar by and by.

One day the door unlatched, 
my stunted feathers gave a try.
I flapped and fluttered,
then bid my cell goodbye.
My tiny little throat
Gave out a joyous cry.

Now I had mountains, valleys,
And jungles to ply.
In this new beginning,
food was scarce,
The streams were dry.
No waterproof nest,
where I could lie.
Stars blinked down
with a silent sigh.
And I had to forgo,
my melodious lullaby.
For the constant fear
of the hunter’s pry.

New starts are challenges,
I won’t deny.
They test your spirit.
But also fortify.
They cast doubts,
Nevertheless, clarify.
So, crush the whispers of fear,
and learn to identify.
For new horizons bloom,
where limits die.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Mars Has No Wars

It's not red, like they said.
It's white, green, pink, blue
And all other fascinating hues.
Not the grays I am used to.

I was told there is no air here, 
Yet every breath is crisp and sheer
No masks, no tubes, no weight to bear.
Most importantly, nothing to fear.

I didn't need a suit or a flight, 
Just a smile and a grip held tight.

On Mars,

Food overflows, in plates, pots and dustbins
Buildings rise, neither burned nor crumbling.
No kids with wounds from bullet strikes.
All body parts intact, not lost to any pikes.
The sky glitters even without missiles,
The dead are buried, not left in piles.
Huge cranes lift steel to kiss the sky,
Unlike ours, which lifted cries up high.
Here parents and friends grow old.
No blood-stained tents left to fold.


They said Mars holds no life.
What's this then? Afterlife?
I had heard so much about Mars
Today I learnt Mars has no Wars.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

The Sun Never Chooses Sides

We walked under the same sky,
but carried different forecasts.
your silence was a sandstorm
and mine a drought.

Yet we mistook our survival
as our strength.
I was parched with waiting
and you were eroded by wind.

World saw our resilience not the cracks.
How I begged for rain or
How you vanished behind gusts.

They said strong woman is "silent"
They said strong man is "violent'.
Neither of us asked for this climate.

But what if one day, we looked up—
and saw that the sun never chose sides.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Flower Chide I, The First Wilt

Before soil met seed or the sun claimed the skies,
There bloomed Nefarys, veiled from mortal eyes
Here, blossoms rose from memory’s breath,
Unbound by season, untouched by death.

Tulip leapt bold with a whip of wild cheer,
While Sunflower spun where the sky poured clear.
Daffodil hummed where the stillness was deep,
And Marigold dreamed in the moon’s drowsy sweep.

Rose sat composed where the soft winds would land,
Her red caught the dusk like a flame in the sand.
Lotus drifted in mirrors, serene yet apart,
Her petals all closed round a hungering heart.

Azure had tended them longer than time,
Brushed every stem, tuned each petal to chime.
“Beauty,” he murmured, “will no longer be same"—
Once mortals confine it to only one name.”

Lotus, half-shadow and moon-painted calm,
Heard Azure's lament like a break in a psalm.
“They’ll crown one as Beauty,” the tiller had sighed—
And something within him curled inward and dried.

And so, he unspooled his whispers with care,
Each one like a tendril uncurling in air.
Lotus, adrift in his mirror bound grace,
Spoke soft to the Rose of her luminous face.

“They sigh when you bloom, they stir when you pass
you were shaped for a throne made of glass.”
Lotus smiled, just enough, and let silence resume
A petal-soft whisper that thickened the gloom.
For envy walks sweetest when cloaked in jest,
And Rose, for the first time, felt thorns in her chest.

Rose blushed, not in bloom, but in tremble and thrill,
Half wanting the crown, half fearing the will.
Then Lotus, with voice like a ripple in shade,
Let rumors unfold in the glens he once stayed,
"She sways with a rhythm quite unknown,
And the petals around her feel overgrown".

To Tulip, he sighed, “She blooms but withdraws.”
To Daffodil, “Power moves soft when it gnaws.”
But Tulip just laughed, “She still smells like spring.
And Daffodil spoke, “She’s rooted past any sting".

Lotus then whispered to sunflower and marigold
"Rose's shine and warmth feels quite controlled".
And Marigold blinked, in a shimmer half-told,
“Her glow feels the same, but her laughter feels cold.”

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Flower Chide III,Crownfall

Don’t mind their judgment or wilt for their say—
Once mortals behold you, they'll all drift away.
You won’t need these petals or roots to remain,
You’ll be sung in sonnets, not whispered in vain.”

Lotus said all these words with such great love
A love too polished, too practiced to shove.
It wrapped around Rose like the promise of a vow.

"Where is this throne you all speak of in bloom?
Is it real—or merely a crown veiled in doom?”
Rose asked Lotus, with her petals drawn tense
like a trembling stem in the wind, unsure of defense.

The throne,” Lotus said, “is no pedestal crowned.
It beats in the thumping hearts that gather around.
Not shaped by the hand, nor born of the clay.
But risen each time a mortal looks your way.”
Azure, the Tiller, heard all but stood still,
Like old loam that waits at the foot of a hill.

“What is a throne?” Tulip didn’t quite say
"Is it filled with fragrance that never goes away?
Is it stitched in the petals that never fall down?
Or tucked in gazes that hollow a crown?"

Daffodil said-"If we linger in lore, we’ll root in despair
Let’s find the path out, while we’re still aware.”
"Let's consult Lotus on this " Marigold told.
"Before we become myth at the threshold.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Folded Promise

She wears rainbows in her almond curls
and paints her eyelids with green swirls.
Her cheeks blush with innocent pearls
Soft as her favourite fruit- strawberries.

Mascara wand in her fingers casts spells on me
her gaze a flicker between play and mystery.
She tangles the bedsheets, 
Spills glitter on pillows,
pouts for the mirror, 
practices smiles and chuckles
All a rehearsal for the girl she will never be.

Because 
Her cradle is still folded like a promise,
she borrows makeup from bags I never packed.
she wears outfits I never choose,
She twirls in mirrors I never hung.

She is my daughter in dreams.
and in dreams they grow like moonlight.

Details | Abdul Mannan Poem

Derailed

Upon the tracks of learning, a conductor stood at the fore—
Not steering a wheel but stirring minds towards motion.
Trusting in passengers whose hands would not be still,
Grasping tickets of knowledge, bound for exploration.

Learning wound along the tracks, on rails firm and wide,
Curiosity chugged through open doors, bound for destiny.
Questions rose like tempered steam, shaping wisdom steadily,
Until the whistle called a stop, where progress met efficiency.

The halt changed everything; tracks buckled in rising heat.
Patience and trust splintered like steel, then warped in defeat.
Conductors pointed fingers, stiffened, and control slipped fast.
Jolted passengers hammered the panes as fear amassed.

Blame crumpled like maps, hurled in desperate debate.
Dread clung like steel, locked in a fate set to race.
Suspicion pooled in silence—slick as oil on rails.
Bolts went flying—connections severed, crashing in trails.

Gears roared in judgment, grinding wheels in despair.
Steel seized the throttle, with nothing left to steer or spare.
The derailed train gained momentum, lurching through wild.
Conductor and passengers watched through the fogged glass—beguiled.

Waiting for the next station—what will it be?
Saturation or adaptation? Only time will see.