Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Just because my cover is weathered and torn And my pages are a little worn Don’t look at me and scorn For I’ve been a thousand places
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
-was it Tuesday? Or maybe the ghost of it- Either way, I was halfway across the asphalt When your name hit the back of my teeth
By The Omnichromiterabout a year ago in Poets
Take a right at the end of the long dirt road and just keep going. Pass by the lone pine tree struck by lightning in the storm of July 4th some 25 years ago. Stay with the deer trail until you reach the creek that meanders through the hardy meadows. Walk upstream to where it forks, and take the eastern branch. Watch for cows when you reach Farmer Henry’s. You’ll know it by the foreboding signs. Keep your eyes and ears open and your head low. The black bull will kill you if it can.
By mesaabout a year ago in Poets
I heard that lonesome mountain. I felt that cold wind blow. Floating to the river's rhythm Was the cradle of my home. Love followed, and one day
I was twelve And already tired of bleeding For things I didn’t break. Already mapping my bruises Like constellations- Trying to find some shape
I seek to understand Tenuous reality at hand Break open my skull and lick Gray matter Blood splatter Like a toxic toad trip
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Poets
“Let Me Entertain You” "I'm a burning effigy of everything I used to be. You're my rock of empathy, My Dear."
By Chris Zabout a year ago in Poets
Grief is the price you pay for the loss of those you love but this loss is too heavy on my heart I cannot fathom how my heart can carry all this pain and still beat
By Lauren Bartonabout a year ago in Poets
A Hole in the Sun There’s a hole in the Sun tonight. A real one. Not science fiction, not a joke. They call it a coronal hole,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
As I sit and think about who I am, The person who I was, looks for me. The person I am now, fights to be seen. The person I was, fights to be free.
By Unspoken Wordsabout a year ago in Poets
I remember... In the childhood room with posters and pictures The two of us sat; A loom kit in our hands. * She didn't know
By Luciousabout a year ago in Poets
“They say the world was made in seven days. But who made the time? Who lit the first fire and then forgot the way home?” In the space before language, before division, before fear — there was the One.
By nawab sagarabout a year ago in Poets
