Naveed Akram

Gold Star - 25,440 Points (15 December 1973 / London, England)

Naveed Akram Poems

5681. Maker Of Horror 8/18/2009
5682. Fire 5/16/2009
5683. The Good Soul 6/8/2009
5684. The River 7/3/2009
5685. The English Language 9/30/2009
5686. Arms Of Love 3/11/2015
5687. Beautiful Courage 12/26/2013
5688. The Animals’ Status 9/20/2011
5689. Food Circle 2/14/2014
5690. The Silver Sword 8/3/2014
5691. Stages Of A Hero 10/5/2009
5692. Begotten 9/6/2009
5693. Beach 10/2/2013
5694. Cats Loved 10/18/2011
5695. Commerce 7/29/2010
5696. Food In The Mouth 7/20/2010
5697. Sonnet Of Happiness 1/20/2008
5698. Good Work 6/11/2009
5699. The Brown Bear 4/27/2009
5700. Many Lower Animals 12/23/2014
5701. The Animal And The Plant 8/20/2007
5702. Faithful Servant 6/18/2014
5703. A Couple Needs Space 7/4/2007
5704. A Book 2/6/2008
5705. Stones 5/14/2009
5706. A Blow Of Cruelty 8/7/2008
5707. Heavenly Winter 6/6/2009
5708. Homes 7/3/2009
5709. Fighting-Chance 7/8/2009
5710. Readers Of Many Words 11/10/2017
5711. Fast Cars 5/1/2009
5712. Learn My Farce 6/19/2015
5713. A Big Present 4/30/2009
5714. Living Things 7/12/2009
5715. System Collapses 6/11/2013
5716. To Slay 7/19/2013
5717. Taste Of Food 11/27/2009
5718. “ghosts Are For The Telling” 6/14/2008
5719. Huge Heart 1/8/2013
5720. For Every Storm 6/29/2008

Comments about Naveed Akram

  • Kaitlyn McKenna (1/16/2008 7:00:00 PM)

    Naveed is a free human. Free to believe, Free to fight, Free to want, free to need.

    Way to go Naveed!

    5 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
Best Poem of Naveed Akram

For Every Storm

For every storm there is a room
And find the palace now,
From deserts are a tomb and gloom,
Where clothes must just allow.

The clothing kisses us on cheek,
When effort made us worse,
The cloth we wear is rather chic,
And worry is a curse.

The storm shall grow at all the speed
That problems make us mad,
You did not follow, or then bleed
As madness is your dad.

Read the full of For Every Storm

Time Is Too High

Time is too high, time is too grand like the art
Of our time, we are all time-lords in our machine.
Life is engineered like a medicine of the tongue,
Living is an art of the transparent, death is the result.

Time is too finding, time manages a space too bright,
Too piercing, so far away and altogether lovely.
Of reasoning there is collision and life, rationale begins
On the tip of the tongue, as sudden as the stars at night.

[Report Error]