art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
My Trip to Human Time
I'm a king out of time, a T-Rex unfrozen when nothing is mine. I walk down the streets just eyeing the treats, but the little food shrieks
A. S. LawrencePublished about an hour ago in PoetsStoned
lovely and dripping with youth she was worthy of being torn from the well-thumbed pages of women's magazines adorned and adored --
Christy MunsonPublished about 5 hours ago in PoetsLove at first glance
I saw a boy one day, in twilight’s tender sway, He stood, where Childers play. His eyes like a star, deep pools of midnight,
The Cupboard Spider
I, This Temple Idefeasibly Fragile Flesh Fearing Fatality Find Intestines Toasty Pregnant, Propelling Posterity Graspable Gossamer Dusk
Amos GladePublished about 9 hours ago in PoetsCold Feet
In the dark I wake from slumber, to watch you sleeping sound. and I think I am a cumber, to peace that you have found.
Amos GladePublished about 10 hours ago in PoetsLast Words of a Kind Heart
A turning in my stomach, preordained that we should part. The future holds out for old age, and congestion of the heart.
Amos GladePublished about 10 hours ago in PoetsAngel of the Deep
Angel of the Deep Hidden in plain sight Shifting sands and waves Draw in the fools and the brave in equal measure A creature of beauty and grace
Atomic HistorianPublished about 10 hours ago in PoetsElegy For the Reptiles of Old
To give life to the long dead and gone In woven words of truth and honour the poet’s concern, their endeavour to lament the passing of the former
Paul StewartPublished about 14 hours ago in Poets- Content Warning
The Futility of Hope
Poetry, art, music, and nature have a unique way of giving us access to what may best be described as the Divine. These mediums bleed outside the realm of rationality, granting access to speak to our soul, in the darkest of times, and can reach places that even our loved ones cannot.
Geno C. ForalPublished about 17 hours ago in Poets Water
Howsoever it came, By no thought it reared, Beckoned to a glass, Nurturer of hand, skin. *** Now now Are we?—let us choose
Christian LeePublished about 17 hours ago in PoetsOn the brink
As I stand, stand, stand on the brink of somewhere between full throttle breakneck disaster and bust-erecting full potential breaching success
Paul StewartPublished about 19 hours ago in PoetsThe Sound of Silence
"That which you most need will be found where you least want to look." —Carl Jung If you have ever been alone in the dark and found yourself surprised by an unrecognizable noise, you can remember the hundreds of images that flash through your mind. The rat, the snake; the dragon, the strange neighbor; your unlocked door, your neglected responsibilities. You struggle to maintain a semblance of rational peace, but everything that could be in the darkness manifests itself within a fraction of a second. You are no longer safe within the walls of your home. You have stumbled in a dark wood, and here, monsters are real.
Geno C. ForalPublished about 20 hours ago in Poets