Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
A portal, an eye, opening into an ancient innocence, a child- hood floating, frozen in time. Spiders living in the spyglass,
By Madison McCartyabout a year ago in Poets
I shaved my head today I shaved the grey away Not that I mind it Not really anyway Not that I sit awake Thinking about my grey
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
I didn't hear your heart stop. Only the hush that followed. A year of silence, like a breath held too long in the ribs of a locked house.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Poets
he was a prince when i met him. what struck me wasn't his fist. not that first night. it was his kyanite eyes that capture the depth -
By ⸘jason alan‽about a year ago in Poets
Oh the soulfull pain The loss of peace Creativity left to wither. Oh the loss of passion The loss of myself Unwritten joy turned cold
By M. W. Larsenabout a year ago in Poets
You stumble into my room at three in the morning to tell me that you love me. But I hate you. Because your words are slurred, and your steps unsteady.
By Shannon E. Mackabout a year ago in Poets
we were once children, weren’t we? wading through, waiting for answers to questions we’ve had since the dawn of time. and who are we
By River and Celia in Underlandabout a year ago in Poets
I began where the soil still clung to last night’s rain, barefoot and curious— the moss didn’t mind, nor did the half-sunken stones or the curl of fern
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
The Bleeding Page I do not ask for kindness here this isn’t stitched in velvet thread each line I write has learned to bite
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
I was inspired by this song and the man that I am going to marry. I hope you enjoy this poem. :) I don't know if I knew what it was like to be loved by someone till we met.
By Chloe Unfilteredabout a year ago in Poets
I went for a walk in the park For self reflection; inspirational spark When poetry began to embark: There one was a writer named Amos
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Poets
You walk the house that you have always walked through Today it is hollow, the warmth is not there You cannot hear him whistling to himself
By Adrianna M. Braunabout a year ago in Poets
