art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

Memorial Day 2025. Content Warning.
After sleeping in today, I decided to create this commentary into a video story song. This is my commentary regarding the occupation of the Whitehouse by demented evil clowns who create destruction, death, and genocide.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
She Kissed Us All on the Moonlit Floor
When she softly sang, “Kiss me, under the Paris twilight,” something in me stirred— like a breeze brushing past an unguarded heart.
By Eric Q Fengabout a year ago in Poets
Sanity poem
shadows swallow shallow shoulder shine swords sustain sacrifices self sold solid soul solo sortout still short, soft. Steady strike
By Karun about a year ago in Poets
Beneath the Pulse
I meant it— the first time your name tripped off my tongue like a secret trying not to shatter. It wasn’t romantic, not in the candy-store version of love
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
The Day I Didn't Go Back
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t holy oil. No angels whispered. No thunder split the sky. Just silence. And a thought I used to obey.
By The Soft Witnessabout a year ago in Poets
A Bustle in the Hedgerow
when art is driven by more than a simple need to pay bills when art is transcendental and becomes more in others’ minds when art is the motivator,
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Ember-Stitched Dawn
Autumn leaves whisper, amber threads stitch dusk to dawn— stillness hums with fire.
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
🌙 The Hidden Kindness
In moments dim, when hearts retreat, And silence wraps the crowded street, A mercy walks with unseen feet— The hidden kindness, soft and sweet.
By Ling about a year ago in Poets
Until It Hurts
I said I would love myself. But I didn’t know it meant holding my own hand through the fire and telling myself “we are not going back.”
By The Soft Witnessabout a year ago in Poets
The Seed of Kindness
The earth lies parched beneath the sun, A silent plea for what is gone. I seek of God, what makes us blind To simple acts of being kind?
By Aima Charleabout a year ago in Poets
The Hollow King and the Stag
The first crown was not gold but bone, not forged but softly grown— a weight of branch and velvet bloom where no head but his own
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
Angelique's Repose. Top Story - May 2025.
Angelique hides quietly in a shrub as bees and birds flit around her. A ladybug climbs up her arm to rest on her shoulder. As she watches clouds, a napping, curled cat floats in the sky, followed by a strand of pearls spreading vertically and horizontally. There are many cloud shapes: eagles, mountains, a sleeping baby, and a canoe drifting along the sky river. Leaves brush against Angelique's immobile and ageless form, a concrete maiden frozen in time.
By Andrea Corwin about a year ago in Poets