Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Golden rays spill through the trees, painting the past in amber hues, where laughter lingers on the breeze, a melody time cannot lose.
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
I've been thinking a lot about iambic pentameter recently. Such thing that I have come to despise recently. iambic pentameter does not sound like a poetic writing device.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
A world set on fire By gilded desire A covetous breath You spent so much time taking away my freedom You forgot to live
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
The creek moves slow, yet it does not wait, slipping over stone and time alike. A heron stands, poised between moments, its shadow stretching longer than its wings.
The path you walk is quiet, often unseen by those who rush past. But every word you craft, every sentence that takes shape,
By Edina Jackson-Yussif --personal growth 2 years ago in Poets
Creativity is natural to me much like breathing. I don’t need fancy tools. twigs and pebbles are just fine to self-express my imagination.
By Seema Patel2 years ago in Poets
From the depths of darkness, where the fire once burned bright, there is a quiet stirring, a spark that refuses to die. The ashes speak of loss,
i shout wondering if this is not whispering and so the wind drives vehicles chariots of the impending from its beginning
By ⸘jason alan‽2 years ago in Poets
love is my religion and you are my god. every night i kneel every dawn i pray to you, for you, about you your bed is a temple,
By Sara 2 years ago in Poets
They arrive like fragments of a dream, feathers dipped in sunlit amber, darting between the unseen threads that bind the air in trembling light.
In the quiet places where shadows linger, there is a flicker— a spark, small but persistent, waiting to be noticed. The dark is not absence,
Bitter greens Slithering unseen Through my dreams A strenuous subcutaneous existence Complaisance in a crime of the mind
