Nice Poetry and List of Poems for Every Mood & Adult

I hate this person because they’re a fake,

They’re only pretending to be nice,
They aren’t nice,
Only their actions are nice,
They only act nice for personal benefit,
In fact, they don’t even know what they are,
But they know for sure they aren’t nice,
And I know that too,

If you look closer at this poem,
You’ll see even more why I’m not nice,
Because a nice person is selfless,
A nice person isn’t selfish,
Isn’t trying to drown in their own pity,
Isn’t doing anything I’m doing,
And this entire time I’ve only been talking about myself,
This entire time.
How could anyone believe I’m nice, if I don’t even believe myself?

I am a nice person
I don’t want to fight
I am a nice person
I am not getting bullied
I am too nice to be a bad guy
I am a nice person
Yes I am
I hear about all the fights
They have in football
And I think it is ****** disgraceful
You see there is this poor Down syndrome man getting bashed at the football
It is totally disgraceful mate oh yes it is
I am a nice person
I don’t put up with that
Cause I am too nice to be like these
Rotten people
You see I am not a hooligan
I am not a ****
I am a nice person
And mate do I love life
You see I don’t tease people at the football I find it is a waste of time
I am a nice person
All of the time

I said it once or maybe it was thrice
My words are not nice they cut like knife
What did I say? is it a big slice?
My words are not nice they cut like knife
Can’t I be bold? without paying a price
My words are not nice they cut like knife
I thought was being nice and not mean and cold like ice
My words are not nice they cut like knife
What was the line that pierced through you?
My words are not nice they cut knife
My words change the mood and now you brood
My words are not nice they cut like knife
Why do the lyrics to my song always comes out wrong?
My words are not nice they cut like knife
My words creates an uproar in our vibrational sing-along
My words are not nice they cut like knife
Forgive me my love I know I was wrong
My words are not nice they cut like knife
I’m not trying to create a mash up out of our perfect song
My words are not nice the cut like knife
I don’t want to be afraid to say what’s on my mind
My words are not nice they cut like knife
Don’t let these words make our relationship decline
My words are not nice the cut like knife
We have waited an eternity and now is our time
My words are not nice they cut like knife
I’m sorry Babes I was completely out of line
My words are not nice they cut like knife
I swear I’ll try, I’ll do better next time
My words are not nice they cut like knife
Words aren’t my strongest suit they get intertwined and messes with the baseline
My words are not nice they cut like knife

I know that they all like to say that nice guys finish last.
But this really is far from true.

Most nice guys really will end up finishing first.
It just may happen to them well after they want it to.

But it may be to your advantage, that way.
You’ll get to meet people at their best, some would say.

When you get to finish first, first, you will miss out on a lot.
The people whose prime is early in life are generally not the best.

I know that it is really hard to think that you’ll have to wait.
There is not a single person who enjoys waiting.

But it really is in your favor to wait for a little while.
You can meet yourself before meeting other people.

And you have to be crazy to think that there aren’t others who are lonely.
Sometimes the nice girls think they’re in last place, too.

Nice guys think that they have to change.
Nice guys, please do us all a favor, never change.

The world can use a lot of people like you.
We need some people we can be proud of.

See, you think you’re a problem because her parents would like you.
Give it a few years, and that will be what she wants.

I meet this nice guy once and really liked him.
But, as you’d like to guess, I didn’t date him.

I’m even certain that we were flirting for a little bit.
Yet, I did not wish to date him.

I suppose you can call me a hypocrite right now.
I would be lying if I said you’re completely wrong.

But never did I say that nice guys would always win.
All I recall saying is that they wouldn’t finish last.

Because, if I’m being frank here, they cannot be last.
Last is reserved for those whom you don’t desire in the slightest.

And I can attest to always wanting someone nice.
I can admit that I will always want someone who is kind.

And you’re wondering why I didn’t date what I wanted.
As luck would have it, I knew he was too good for me.

He may have actually gotten a different message on that.
I’d be fibbing if I said that I told him that.

He just thinks that I only want him as a friend.
He thinks that was all I ever thought of him as.

He is not entirely wrong, honestly, he’s not.
Dating friends is something that complicates things; so I won’t date them.

But he doesn’t know that I was willing to break that rule.
I would go against all I stand for, just for a nice guy.

Sure, I would then somehow ruin things, but it would be nice while it lasted.
But I could never think of hurting someone so dearly, not when he gave his all.

Nice guys don’t finish last because no one wants them.
Nice guys finish last because everyone wants them.

Nice guys win in the end because others have gathered up their courage.
When we can be real with them, then they can win.

Love is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
Nice is cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest

‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss it
lest it attract your notice
lest it presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence

Love pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption

Love defies convention

Love carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Love perseveres all the love-long day

Love doesn’t delay

Love is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts

He’s nice to me sometimes,

We smile at eachother in his car
He’s nice to me sometimes,
Shared glances from afar
He’s nice to me sometimes,
Driving me home late at night
He’s nice to me sometimes,
Even though we tend to fight,
He’s nice to me sometimes,
He can be so harsh and cold
He’s nice to me sometimes
His words so uncontrolled
He’s nice to me sometimes
Wanting me to go away
He’s nice to me sometimes
I could talk to him all day
He’s nice to me sometimes
I say to myself, you see
“He’s nice to me. Sometimes..
But that’s good enough for me.”

Sometimes the ***** of my driveway is enough
To keep me locked up tight at home
My promises are mostly empty, mostly drunk
And later I plead sick or stuck or broken
Because loving things is hard
Each new time is like the last
An equation I cannot break or match
Whiskey spilled makes common ground
And everyone here is going to be sorry
Because loving things is hard

But it’s nice to be in love, it’s
Peaches in the summertime,
Apples in the fall
Sometimes I miss it all
Because it was all so god ******  nice
It was nice in his kitchen making coffee while he showered
And laughing wet-hair kisses in the bedroom
It was nice on the futon by the wood stove
Reading books while he was off in some basement playing music
And making love when he came home

Nice when played Birmingham, nice how he was shy

Nice too, when he played Shady Grove and I thought my heart would die
From the way he’d taken something that had been his before, and mine before
And hung it up in the air between us like it could be ours
Now that air is gone
And I never sing that song

Yes, it was nice, very nice, to be in love
But it is good, very good, to be free
Because I have places to go, and loving things is hard
I don’t like the way it pulls on all my strings, dragging them out of me,
Tying their ends to beds and tables and chairs,
Running them through guitars,
So that it hurts to leave
And the stroke of some nice man’s fingers can send vibrations all through me,
Touching everything
I don’t like the way I become more who I am with him
Than who I am with everything and everyone else, who I am by myself
It is nice to make coffee and love and songs
But it is good to be free,
Because loving things is hard

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough’d him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show’rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris’d them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm’d wi’ pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter’d mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show’d he began to fail.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax,
Her checks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.

The skipper, he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now west, now south.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
“I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear the hurricane.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, than thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor aught by love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way reply;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more we may live ever.