Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Dreaming a Path Towards Reawakening by Anthony/Linonux I trace the outlines of a dream I can’t forget A silhouette of something more, not mine—at least not yet
By Joel Anthonyabout a year ago in Poets
I, tattered and torn pain internal reborn every day, every way nothing they often say lasts forever, but no nothing, ever goes away
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Haunted by plasmic ascendents long stranger to me, surviving bottle neck and extermination, I’ve been turned ghost in the desert, mourner by the sea.
By Chaia Leviabout a year ago in Poets
PERFECTION Samiul Nirjon Late at night in this chest, I heard the call of black pain. In this city that night. No one else was awake;
By Rejuan Ratulabout a year ago in Poets
It began with the hum of morning— soft gold sliding across a windowpane, the kind of light that feels like forgiveness before you even know what needs forgiving.
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
A compass spins, uncertain, free, Until a magnet's pull takes hold, you see. So too, our spirits drift and roam, Until a purpose calls us home.
By Tafsirul Talukdar luvdoabout a year ago in Poets
Beneath the velvet cloak of night, a quill dips into lunar white— not ink, but stardust, thick and bright, to scribe the silence into light.
By Sanchita Chatterjeeabout a year ago in Poets
From the neurons’ misfire I lived many lives, now on my ninth with my final chance in seeking final facets of living. Delicately constructing, sifting,
with flesh necrotic, in chronic habit to self-cannibalize in fevered attempt to suck out the venom not realizing, in our panic,
One day I will be gone yet continue on just as the ones before me and will follow. I will find the right ones, the wrongs ones
I remember her; Lost in a room behind a quiet door, she curled into the hush of pain— clutching her belly like it could hold her together, a little longer.
By Glydsabout a year ago in Poets
Written, created, edited, produced into a story directly from my brain adventures of dreams and living in a paint bucket amidst a tortured economy and chaotic political climate in 2025.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
