Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
On mushrooms’ caps, a frosty lace A delicate design, a work of grace Each tiny crystal sparkles bright Reflecting a pale winter’s moonlight
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
From her bow she throws and hurls me And I was not wounded or thrown And I did not feel the marks of the wounds nor was my feeling of this wound erased
By Kisama Riyo 2 years ago in Poets
Skin hardens while waves of goosebumps blanket the various surfaces to shield the flesh and bones from the fleeting frost.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Poets
A man's mother died and his companion grieved for her Without a mother for a son, the loneliness of time comes How much she endured and in her was the utmost degree of patience
He loves her beauty and she loves her money. How can love be between them? She says: I love a man with a lot of money He says: I love a woman with a beautiful condition
Day is a prison for the sighted bat A long night for the blind sight And a blind owl at night And returned in the day to destiny
It's been flowing, From January this year, Like a long river, More way to go, When genuinely looking back, I can be proud,
By Esala Gunathilake2 years ago in Poets
You have to surrender the world in the morning You have to surrender the world in the soul I have woken up and hopes are awakening
A fragrant morning, fragrant, goes out for perfumes And with blessings it opens and with blessings it overflows And with breezes it prostrates to goodness, agreeing
Wake up slow Darling There’s no hurry The world can wait I know that we both have So much we want to do But let’s just stay
By Ellie Hoovs2 years ago in Poets
How can you, my love, accept my tears And the dawn is asleep waiting for me to rise and kneel? How can you let down a soul that accepted to be broken
