Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
A flock of storks spread their wings, you'd think it's crossbows flying through the sky. Even perched above the mosque, they're still strangers to the sweetness of a genuine smile.
By el hariti adil3 months ago in Poets
Electric Skin They looked at all the colour And thought that was the story Like brightness means happiness Like glowing means glory
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
Wet from head to toe Tidal rise and fall endure Ever salty son O ~ o ~ Win one of hundredslots of $5 tips Details available now and from here:
By Raymond G Taylor3 months ago in Poets
BRIDGE:*2 HOOK:*1 Found a time to say bye bye Growing up I’m getting high Certain habits getting rid of…. Don’t like knobheads that do lie
By Haychie_Artist3 months ago in Poets
They hated all that weren’t like them Other creeds Other languages Other races But they screamed all the same When the leopard came for their faces
By Atomic Historian3 months ago in Poets
~The Raven to the Sky! ~ The Raven The Raven The Raven, Speaks again. The silence Of injustice Through the years, Through the years
By Jennifer Cooley4 months ago in Poets
the aging agony of falling in love with Your Very very very Best friend It’s like sapphires are lodged in my heart Reflecting my sweet dreams of you like a prison
By Melissa Ingoldsby4 months ago in Poets
The voice behind me whispers doom, The joy of motion well suppressed, While beauty's up ahead in bloom. The span of world shrinks down to room.
By A. S. Lawrence4 months ago in Poets
Click, thud, click, thud One heel perfect, the other a dud Flicker, on, flicker, off Bulbs need to be changed in the lights of this lot
By Raine Neal4 months ago in Poets
I sat o’er peaks And loch and quay Outside the wee town Of Pitlochry Upon sacred ground Amongst standing stone And thistled paths
By Matthew J. Fromm4 months ago in Poets
When that which is wrought is from darkness And the spaces between the words spoken Are at times are less and few less and few
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
The rooms have no corners now, only the places where memory forgets its own mouth, where trembling prayers pool beneath the ribs
By venusianjade4 months ago in Poets
