art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
poetry became—me
"Waking up, covered in sweat, aphids crawl in every crevice, dirt blocking out my vision. The little I can see is black, bleary and blurry. Where am I, what is this? There's something sniffing around my ears. Nibbling at the edges, playfully even, ticklish. Rats, mice or something. Maybe ferrets. There's that smell. Polecat, ferret smell. Worms slither in my hair. Trying to break free, can't move my arms, can't move my legs. Are they strapped down? Are they weighed down? By the dirt burying me head to toe. Does it matter? I can't move, I can't escape. Stuck in this hell, stuck in this prison. It feels like a container or box, or maybe coffin? Now I can't think of anything else but coffin, confining me. My nose is itchy, dammit. That seems unimportant but the itch is aggravating. Stuck in this hell, this prison. Who? What? Why? I could speak if I could open my lips. My jaw is sore. Even if I could vocalise what I'm feeling, how I'm reeling in terror. Maybe it's time to embrace it, give in, let it take me. Whatever it is, whoever it is. Fighting seems pointless, helpless, in vain. How can it be that it is how and also cold? There is something else... Spiders? Scorpions crawling and biting or picking at my skin and flesh. Why won't I wake up? Is this even a dream or a never-ending nightmare? I am not sure if I can tell whether I... am awake or not. Why is it getting warmer? Why is it getting darker?"
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
Embers of Unity
Chapter 1: The First Flame The wind howled through the frozen chasms of Eldenstead, gnawing at the sturdy wooden homes and slicing through the warmest cloaks like a serrated whisper. In the heart of the village square, the Hearth of Ages stood tall—a majestic brazier whose flame had danced unbroken for more than three centuries. This was no ordinary fire; it pulsed with life, a vibrant ember embodying the very spirit of Eldenstead—a watchful guardian against the creeping shadows of despair.
By GoldenSpeech2 years ago in Poets
Letter to My Prince Charming
Dear Prince Charming, You are sexier than me and more popular and you have much more money. You dance better, but I think I sing better. You're easier to get along with, but I'm a better writer. You probably have more practical knowledge, but my abstract knowledge is very useful in tight jams.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman2 years ago in Poets
