Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
So many faces in my hand, A sea of smiles across the land. A thousand wins, a "Match!" so bright, It fills my lonely screen with light.
By The 9x Fawdi12 months ago in Poets
We build our altars to the algorithm's god, And curate faces on the polished sod. A marketplace of smiles, a digital sea,
Not from a lofty bough does it depend, But from a tender, layered, leafy friend. A cheerful yellow crescent, curved and sleek,
your music tastes like strawberry You read like perfume Toasted spices that feel like warm, soft, dainty, hugs But I have no experience toasting any spices ever in my life
By Melissa Ingoldsby12 months ago in Poets
The House next door is always quiet, It's a bit spooky, and there's something that just doesn't feel right. I have never seen a single soul around,
By Hardy12 months ago in Poets
It begins in the smallest way, your hand brushing mine as though it’s done so a thousand times before. There’s a quiet knowing in that touch,
By Printique Studios12 months ago in Poets
An inch and a mile An inch and a mile were sailing down the Nile They did it in such style Made it look cinch Could do it in a pinch
By Christopher Beard12 months ago in Poets
this is gonna hurt me so i’m gonna have to make it hurt you more it's not gonna be pretty but i have to settle this score
By Bren12 months ago in Poets
BRIDGE: Not Alright VERSE 1: I’m alright I’m doing good Pray to God I know I would Born and raised In London East End….
By Haychie_Artist12 months ago in Poets
Two perpendicular lines intersect a singularity forged And there At the point Transubstantiation The hunter becomes God
By Matthew J. Fromm12 months ago in Poets
This poem was written in response to the Rattle® Poetry Ekphrastic Challenge for August 2025 and was ultimately not selected. You can find more information here.https://rattle.com/page/ekphrastic/
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)12 months ago in Poets
I can feel it, the fragile tremor of your hand in mine, as if the whole world’s weight rests between our palms. The air is thick with things unsaid,
