Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
Once in a town with no name on the map,
Lived two odd brothers and one wild chap.
Anonymous whispered through alley and fog,
Famous lit up like a trending blog.
They shared a small house with their cousin Perilous,
Who juggled sharp truths and was slightly nefarious.
One wore a hoodie, one wore a crown,
The third wore chaos like a hand-me-down.
Anonymous vanished when doors creaked ajar,
Famous rolled in a rented sports car.
Perilous came with a suitcase of schemes,
And a grin that could haunt your dreams.
One day they argued 'who wore it best?"
Was it silence, spotlight, or cunning unrest?
Famous said, “I’m adored by the masses!”
Anonymous scoffed, “They’re shallow as glasses.”
Perilous laughed, “You both miss the game
I thrive in the shadows and profit from blame.”
The town unraveled like threads from a sleeve,
Famous turned ghost, Anonymous took his leave.
Billboards went blank, the clocks lost their sound
Perilous had rewired the town.
He scrawled on the fountain in lipstick and ash:
“I left as a rumor. Returned as your flash
Now legends are told in that nameless town,
Of brothers who rose, and one who tore down.
So, if you meet someone with mystery eyes,
Check their pockets for riddles and lies.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
Wit sharp as a sword,
nerves soft as pudding.
I slice with charm,
but melt at the sound of risk.
Courage is custard
Topped with bravado sprinkles
Served boiling hot
I just take a teaspoon
and let it scald.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
They call it a profession.
Selling your skin is not the same
as selling your skill.
They call it a bad habit.
Nose picking is not the same
as digging dignity.
They call it empowerment.
Selling a product is different
from being the product.
They call it freedom,
Walking naked in a cage is
not the same as walking free.
They call it a choice
But selecting whose hunger to feed is
not the same as selecting your outfit.
It is what it is-
a meat market, where bodies hang in cuts of desire,
priced by the pound.
a silent auction, where the highest price
buys nothing but shame.
It's a landfill, where discarded intimacy rots
beneath the glitter of screens.
It's a plague, spreading through wires,
infecting touch, until love itself coughs blood.
It's a parasite, gnawing through the bones of society,
spitting out empathy like gristle.
It is a wound which bleeds on both ends.
the watcher and watched are both
drowning in the sea of pus.
Behind the curtains, hands grow fat,
minting coins from pain and spat.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
Caelith pulsed in the starless seam,
No warmth, just orbit, cold with gleam.
“Equality is just a myth,” it sighed,
“And safety, merely a dreamleaf dried.
A lull to cradle wilt and thrall,
For leaves too tender yet to let fall.”
Then Lily laughed, a sound half-sung,
Like petals bruised but newly sprung.
"If truth decays in myths you spin,
We’ll plant our wound and bloom within.
From mulch of lies and roots opposed,
We will bloom not rose, but Pokenose".
Caelith stirred, its voice a flame
Of dust and law without a name.
“Try your might, bloom what you will
This is reality, cold and still.
Hope is a pollen that drifts, then dies
Order endures when dream defies.”
"Let's all get back to our home Nefarys'
where dreams aren't trimmed" said Iris
Past spindlefern and veiled ravine
They tread through fire tinted green.
In the center where petal circles close
They knelt where breath became the prose
Tulip brushed a thorn aside,
“Beauty’s truest when it won’t abide".
"Let this be seen," said Peonies, grave,
"A bloom unbent is twice as brave."
They placed it firm in woven light.
where scent alone confers the rite.
No voice was raised, but all could tell
Azure had steeped the air with spell.
Pokenose shimmered, slow to bloom,
A want once buried in Nefarys' womb.
Not born of thirst, but love of pain
It fed and fed on beauty's stain.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abdul Mannan Poem
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.
Copyright © abdul Mannan | Year Posted 2025
|