Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
There’s dust in the attic, and boxes of time— a wedding dress faded, a clock with no chime. The ghosts here are quiet, they whisper in threads,
By Malik Kashif2 years ago in Poets
A hundred names carved in the bark of this old oak. Some hearts still beat, some don't. The tree doesn’t know which is which.
I saw you in the reflection of a broken window— a ghost of a glance lit by accidental moonlight. You didn’t look away.
Fold me a planet from paper dreams— crease it at regret, tuck the moons under laughter, let it spin on an axis of maybe.
It wasn’t love, not really— just the way you stirred your coffee like the storm outside wasn’t worth worrying about. And I,
Beneath my feet, stones tell stories— not loud, but persistent. A sigh of gravel, the hush of moss. They remember where rivers ran,
The sky itself is a vast painting.. There are many grasses that lie down and lie down There are many lovers who melt on the ocean
By Rohitha Lanka2 years ago in Poets
Don’t steal what I used to heal My words is my therapy The one thing that keeps me sane Helps put words to my pain No don't take this away
By L.I.E2 years ago in Poets
there’s dirt again beneath my fingernails buried deep I could try to scrub try to wash and dry but the dirt is not physical or tangible
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
Watching him on that stage is like watching a fire burn. Heat and art and rage. The corners of my mouth turn. ~ And this heart in my chest
By Katerina Petrou2 years ago in Poets
Pause. Feel the hush between steps, the way sunlight lingers on outstretched hands. Breathe out— watch the air shimmer,
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
Marie381UK – The Poet With Punch She writes with fire, not with fluff, Her words are fierce, her style is tough. No drifting dreams or painted skies,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 years ago in Poets
