Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The angry man is a madman. He’s walking through streets of contempt, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, clutching fragments of a shattered mirror
By Marvelous Michael2 years ago in Poets
love is like sticking your fingers, your wet fingers in the socket, letting it electrocute you electro— cute— you are so
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
How do you explain a war with no blood, a battlefield beneath the skin, where the enemy wears your face and the fight never ends?
The courage to begin again is a quiet kind of strength, not a roar but a steady breath that comes after the storm has passed.
By Edina Jackson-Yussif --personal growth 2 years ago in Poets
There is a quiet beauty in surrender, in loosening the grip on what once felt essential— the weight of expectations, the echoes of doubt,
I unfasten the weight of my name, let it slip like a cloud unraveling in the wind. No longer earthbound, no longer fixed—
The air is thick, the lungs grow weak, A silent killer, sly and sleek. A single spark, a cloud so gray, Another life drifts far away.
By The Best2 years ago in Poets
Beneath an amber haze, the ground hums warm, soft dirt clings like memory, and cicadas strike a match of sound— a rhythm too ancient to ignore.
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
A river knows the way Without a map, without a guide, It twists through valleys, wide and narrow, Carrying whispers of mountains,
Steam curls from a morning mug, the warmth cradled in quiet hands, sunlight slipping through the blinds, painting gold on the kitchen table.
Change does not arrive in thunder, nor in the sharp break of a wave— it comes like the first breath of morning, a hush before the sky begins to glow.
There is a glow within you, soft as dawn, steady as the stars. It flickers in your quiet moments, shines when you dare to be seen.
