art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
War
We bomb and decimate every night, But have no fear were winning the fight. As prices soar and people go hungry The tariffs bring income but no finale The price of goods none oversee Price gouging; couldn''t they foresee We bomb and decimate every night, But have no fear were winning the fight. And gas prices soar beyond belief The American people see no relief Its all ok said The Commander in Chief But Charlie Brown would say Good Grief We bomb and decimate every night, But have no fear were winning the fight. Our wounded soars to six twenty-four An acceptable number because its war. But eighteen lives we lost thus far American servicemen who are no more. Eileen Buckiewicz
By Eileen Buckiewicz2 months ago in Poets
The Melancholy of Fall Leaves
The melancholy of autumn leaves is palpable everywhere you go—the natural carpet whispers: “I am already here,” revealing its name to those who tread upon it; it sings a song of thousands of walks each year; at every moment as we experience this melancholic autumn, the spirit and its awakening from the deepest recesses of our inner being move higher and deeper each day, yet this does not disrupt the synchronicity with the overwhelming power of everything, which draws from the environment in which we currently live—this depth and intensity of existence can be beautiful, joyful, and exhausting—therefore, thoughts must remain in the transparency of existence, above earthly egos that offer no answers or solutions to the greatest tasks, questions, and struggles of the being in the now just touch the moment make it free and open in everywhere and take your mind above the murky sphere
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 2 months ago in Poets
Husk
You swept into my life And stole all my nights That bled into years My greatest of fears Animated within A soulless husk Frankenstein At least Left his monster with a mob Where by the end Even our passion was an act Until you finally Blessedly Evaporated Leaving me alone with A blood-drained heart And a wine-stained bed
By Matthew J. Fromm2 months ago in Poets
