art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

  • Mihaela Vasileva
    Published a day ago
    Calm

    Calm

    Even when the water stirs at the ripple following a throw of a stone,
  • Isadorian
    Published a day ago
    The Washing

    The Washing

    The Waters
  • Renzi Mika
    Published 3 days ago
    Melodies

    Melodies

    deafening silence, quickening of breath
  • Kathryn Milewski
    Published 4 days ago
    Daisy Chains
  • Isadorian
    Published 5 days ago
    Hope

    Hope

    In the destructive conflict
  • Isadorian
    Published 5 days ago
    Flowers

    Flowers

    Ahhh! Stock flowers
  • MakaaPaaka
    Published 5 days ago
    Poets' Corner: Edo, The Sun

    Poets' Corner: Edo, The Sun

    Poetry, a form of art that knows no limits nor bounds.It paints images of people, places and experiences in the mind of the reader and etches emotions onto the readers' soul. It allows the reader to live the lives of a thousand men as well as experience the poets' love, heart ache, achievements and failures. One poem has the potential to generate a myriad of interpretations and leave the reader with infinite ideologies to contemplate.
  • Zawadi SJ
    Published 8 days ago
    MA Art

    MA Art

    It's been used
  • Mihaela Vasileva
    Published 22 days ago
    Soundtrack of My Soul

    Soundtrack of My Soul

    In the morning,
  • Mihaela Vasileva
    Published about a month ago
    Desire

    Desire

    A hidden desire stirs within me.
  • Lisa Masters
    Published about a month ago
    The Station
  • Alsu Gara
    Published 2 months ago
    Prose on Self-Love

    Prose on Self-Love

    if i had wings and the ability to linger between the flower fields and ancient forests, maybe it would be easier for me to remember of my magic. but in between the concrete walls and the weights of responsibilities, social relationships and reputations, i forget of the wonders of existence. my body grows just like the mighty trees, and it longs for love. had i not been exposed to the beauties of my existence every day, would i still take them for granted? my skin is nothing but skin to me, because i see it every day. had i not been forced to consider my flaws as flaws by the preconditioned societal norms, would they still seem as flaws to me? proust taught me that the most successful meaning of life is art. so, let my body be art and let my mind be art, too. to live as if i am being created along the way, cherish myself like i’m a work of art and work on myself as if i am only the first draft. it would be easier to remember of my magic, had it not been for the clouds of judgement. but as everything is in constant motion, so too the clouds shall move. and when they do, i’ll whisper to the sun to help me shine.