Naveed Akram

Gold Star - 25,124 Points (15 December 1973 / London, England)

Naveed Akram Poems

2361. Sleep Of Peace 1/29/2011
2362. Two Innocent Men 1/31/2011
2363. Pleasant Heart 1/31/2011
2364. Noticing An Accident 2/2/2011
2365. Graveness 2/2/2011
2366. Words, Words, Words 2/5/2011
2367. The Thought Is Made 2/5/2011
2368. My People 2/8/2011
2369. Decaying Days 4/20/2011
2370. A Championship For Him 4/21/2011
2371. Run To Death 4/21/2011
2372. Splendid Crown 4/21/2011
2373. Ghost Revisited 4/21/2011
2374. Fair Rains 4/24/2011
2375. Do Not Hate 4/24/2011
2376. Writing? 4/25/2011
2377. She Loves 4/25/2011
2378. Defending The Lady 4/25/2011
2379. The Soul 4/25/2011
2380. Precious Me 4/26/2011
2381. Always Silent 4/26/2011
2382. Married To A Doctor 4/26/2011
2383. With Unhappy Pain 4/26/2011
2384. Nearer To Trees 4/27/2011
2385. Thousand Bullets 4/27/2011
2386. Better Knowledge 4/27/2011
2387. Biggest Work 4/27/2011
2388. I Love Tranquillity 4/27/2011
2389. The Author And The Witch 4/27/2011
2390. Mortified 4/28/2011
2391. Forbearance 4/28/2011
2392. Children And Adults 4/28/2011
2393. You Sit There 4/28/2011
2394. On The Way 4/28/2011
2395. Future Claim 4/29/2011
2396. Blood-Thirst 4/29/2011
2397. Overwhelming Dresses 4/29/2011
2398. I Am In Wealth 4/30/2011
2399. Brilliant Love 4/30/2011
2400. A Charming Introduction 4/30/2011

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

My Chest Is My Knowledge

My mansion is my chest and legs from the years gone by,
I grew up wanting rewards and ideas amply designed.
With questions my father understood the rhymes,
I was little, he was sadder than the rest of martyrs, who died.
How different was the beauty of the face in lights of studios!

My manliness or success listened to the eyes of my mother,
Scratched by eminence, surrendered to the pages of pleasure.
Books were books of condemnation, pride and revival,

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