Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
A Slow Bloom Her mind, a maze of echoes long unfurled, Whispers of a fractured world. History etched in hidden scars, She wears the weight of distant stars.
By Katie L. Kashan2 years ago in Poets
You Paint In Lies You paint in colours born of lies, I paint the same one in black and white. Yours shimmer with a false sunrise,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 2 years ago in Poets
Don’t you want to be happy? Not necessarily. It is not sustainable. When I feel immense happiness, an incredible high that I thought was so far within reach of this lifetime, the comedown is so painful I could wish for death.
By Katerina Petrou2 years ago in Poets
A Sapling pandiculates, As the sun's light dictates, on leaves' deathbed. Akin my resurrection, where worded imperfection,
By KSR2 years ago in Poets
Veil of dew dissolves, threads of light weave through the pines, clarity takes root.
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
and you roll over in your sleep saying you love me i can hear that dream your mug filled with red and green what a yellow that paint gleams
By Essie2 years ago in Poets
I am 19. Black. African. Whole, not part, Not mixed race, not “incomplete,” I’ve got a healthy, functioning body. But still, somehow, I feel… unfinished.
By Marvelous Michael2 years ago in Poets
Paint me with words, with strokes of truth, Let me see what you see in this youth. Art is more than colour on a page— It’s the feeling that sets the soul on stage.
In the shadows of trees, Architects tell more. Tells the boxes, For cold or allergy. One who's been there small, Inhabited, and In the depths.
By K.A. Smith2 years ago in Poets
In the quiet night, When the world feels light, A battle goes unseen, A war within, where thoughts have been. Not all scars show on skin,
By Isuri Geeganage2 years ago in Poets
spin me a tale of blood and more me the crazy old hermit, as so often I am both metaphorical—literal As I sit and wonder what may have been
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
In my grandmother's hands I see mapping of survival Calluses like topographical memories Each line a story of crossing oceans
By Edina Jackson-Yussif --personal growth 2 years ago in Poets
