Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Good for, but it is A well-balanced meal; OKaaay On to the next one. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smith2 years ago in Poets
"I detest the faults beyond measure which nature has given to women," he admits to the alabaster in his arms, his upper lip peeling as he traces her clavicle with his bared teeth. "But you, my ivory girl, will be perfect."
By Wen Xiaosheng2 years ago in Poets
Impaled I inhale the pain Watch the blood rain As I pull your knife from my back For the heresy But now they listen to me
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
They were NPC’s with little concern Until color became oval shaped Schicklgruber was his middle name John is his middle name almost 100 years later
By Cadma2 years ago in Poets
Beneath the silver moon, I knelt, a whisper on my lips, an offering in my hands. The gods did not speak, nor did they turn away—
By Marvelous Michael2 years ago in Poets
I take the stage, and I speak clearly. Not softly, not sweetly—clearly. No violin to soften my syllables, no drum to drown my diction,
The trunk was the first thing I noticed in my grandmother's attic, not the dust, cobwebs, or musty scent that seemed to cling to everything. Tucked beneath the eaves, half-hidden by a moth-eaten comforter, its metal locks glittered like buried treasure in the dim light that filtered through the dormer window.
By A.O2 years ago in Poets
The weight of a moment is heavier than time— like rain that lingers in the air before it falls, caught between staying and letting go.
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
I fear what my survival instincts tell me what to do It took me so long to finally find you I watch my environment go up in flames
Echoes from 1944 Sarah's hands trembled as she opened the worn shoebox she had found in her grandmother's attic. Inside, dozens of letters were delicately wrapped in fading blue ribbon, their edges dulled by time. The postmarks dated back to 1944, and the return addresses led through war-torn Europe. As she delicately undid the ribbon, a short message slipped out: "My dearest Thomas, my love across the vast ocean."
People who ghosted me.. I am most lonely person, I‘m gone forever…
By Meghan LeVaughn 2 years ago in Poets
The dust motes dance in fading light, A silent ballet, soft and white. Across the floor, where shadows creep, Memories linger, secrets keep.
By nikhil sablania2 years ago in Poets
