Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Hello, Moon. Good evening. I know it’s been odd for over thirty years since I see the moon, even if I couldn’t see it well.
By Meghan LeVaughn 11 months ago in Poets
I felt you before I saw you, a rhythm beneath everything quiet, something soft, steady, alive. The world paused for a breath,
By Printique Studios11 months ago in Poets
I was born twenty years too late to save a woman already unraveling. the apparent and ignored firestorm I came into the world a decade after the warning signs,
By Cadma11 months ago in Poets
He’s the one. He’s been there all along— watching, waiting, whispering through the folds of time, through the static hum of heartbreak and silence.
By THE HONED CRONE11 months ago in Poets
The Birds That Didn’t Want to Live in a Tree They gathered once, at dawn’s soft call, A hundred wings, yet hearts so small.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 11 months ago in Poets
O patient sentinel of silver light, I write to you beneath your gaze tonight. You’ve lingered long above my quiet days, A pale companion in the sky’s vast maze.
By Musulyn M (MUSE)11 months ago in Poets
Whispering voices inside, With all the rage and triggers, Saying things I don't want to say. Voices in my mind,pushing me to the darkside.
By Lucripa11 months ago in Poets
She saw love as a savior From loneliness and fear She saw love as a home, A home of those who never rest No one told her that it’s a trap
By Iulia Popa11 months ago in Poets
there's a line a few in fact that i forget the relevance so resolute in my affliction i take a moment turn it into a lifetime
By Paul Stewart11 months ago in Poets
moon shadow dearest moon - you are always full in spite of your lunar rhythm but I only periodically see your entirety
By Michael Scicchitano11 months ago in Poets
Everything feels slightly off, like the world shifted half an inch while I wasn’t looking. The coffee tastes the same, but it doesn’t land right on my tongue. Even my own hands seem borrowed, as if they remember something I can’t return to.
This ghazal speaks of endurance — of love that refuses to fade even in absence. It captures that quiet ache of remembrance, where longing itself becomes a sacred flame. In the solitude of night, the poet’s heart continues to burn with devotion, transforming pain into light.
By heasb00111 months ago in Poets
