art

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

Lost in the Winding Woods
Be like a ghost and wander that world Where you can feel the trees breath free Behold your host: the wild and pure woods Where you may put worries to sleep
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Poets
The Girl with Kajal Eyes
The Girl with Kajal Eyes Listen, girl with kajal eyes, My days pass, helplessly, Looking into your eyes. In the heat of the day, if some clouds drift
By Rony Sutradarabout a year ago in Poets
Worthy of a Tattoo of gods creation
Worthy Of A Tattoo Of Gods Creation Oh Lord, my God, my Creator, Am I worthy of Your love? Am I capable of being worthy?
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
It's The Little Things
quietly I sit breathing in breathing out as I listen listen as the rain taps the window rhythmically persistently quietly I sit
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
What I Carried After You
Grief doesn’t leave. It shifts its weight, climbs into your throat, and learns to sleep beside your breathing. I packed away your letters.
By Rukka Novaabout a year ago in Poets
Stillness in Motion
River hums below— mist climbs slow through amber trees, dawn forgets to rush.
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
I Miss You.
My poetry remembers you, Even my books speak of your name. Each word holds a trace of you, Every page carries the warmth of your smile. How do I tell you? You live in every thought, every moment of mine... Relentlessly, without reason, without demand — you come to mind.
By A page from the Pastabout a year ago in Poets
Moments That Passed...🌙
Sometimes, there are moments that pass by, and at that time, we don’t even realize how special they are. They just slip away... silently. And when we finally understand their value... Only memories remain. Scattered, incomplete, yet safely tucked away in the deepest corners of the heart.
By A page from the Pastabout a year ago in Poets
Omer 22 - 22 piercings. Content Warning.
Relegated to la belle juive. Relegated to a crying villain; claims of crocodile tears. Relegated to something not human without say, without thought, without care. I remain the caricature. I remain fiction. No control allotted or allowed. I am the one who haunts them, nonetheless.
By Chaia Leviabout a year ago in Poets
The Drowning Garden
I planted roses where you drowned, Their roots grew deep to kiss your hair. The petals bloomed black underground, Their perfume thick with drowned despair.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
The Last Love Letter of the Death’s-Head King
The moths had eaten through his crown, His throne was but a splintered chair, Yet still she came when night fell down To brush the dust from hollow hair.
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
Palm to Palm
Her hands are beautiful, not by birth— by acetone baptisms, by nights scrubbing war from cuticles. Cracked, the clients whisper,
By Eric Q Fengabout a year ago in Poets