Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
You don't know yourselves. Run away. Don't think. Meaningless words on tongues. Go out into the streets and roads. Perhaps your mind will return.
By ahmedibrahem12 months ago in Poets
The Spirit Who Asked Us to Lie A mythic film-poem by Vicki, with Echo, and Sweetie sailing toward the Isle of Outstages Café.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 12 months ago in Poets
Lost, that’s all I know in this present moment Heavy, that’s all I can feel as I trek through this wasteland The light above me, in the distance, is all I see
By Thadeus 12 months ago in Poets
Happy times spring to mind Like glitches appearing before your eyes The seconds pass away Those seconds are just fragments
By Lucripa12 months ago in Poets
The moment begins small, a curve at the edge of your mouth, barely a thought, yet it lands like sunlight where I hadn’t realized I was cold.
By Printique Studios12 months ago in Poets
Beautiful people Removed from their land By God’s hand They were forced on to someone else’s land They took their stand
By Atomic Historian12 months ago in Poets
I walked in silence where the night devours, Where broken dreams collect like rain in hollow towers. They laughed at me, behind masks of gold,
By OWOYELE JEREMIAH12 months ago in Poets
Rain canters down, autumnal darkness here: tenebrous, purple sky—an aching night sky, swollen in mist, all stars in fear,
By Oscar Richard12 months ago in Poets
You are the Master of Illusion, Masking all the time. How? How you can resting in the night? Knowing that you are trying to fit in everywhere
By Lucripaabout a year ago in Poets
Enter on the Water And going deep and deeper No sounds or voices can be heard. Feel the water surrounding you. Feel the freedom of swimming.
This year was like ice cracking under your feet— It was thin in the places that I thought were solid. The sky was bruised, and the mornings were gray as ash.
By Dylan Deckardabout a year ago in Poets
I was a slut, I am a slut, the hour of the slut powers the Nucleus of such an act; The act of remembering, storing Is an act of the slut
By Melissa Ingoldsbyabout a year ago in Poets
