Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
It’s fleeting this being something matter-made in the cold gut of eternal darkness. See, the clouds no longer carry a burden,
By Meri Utkovska2 years ago in Poets
Twilight's veil descends with velvet grace, Unveiling secrets in the moon's embrace. Ancient oaks, their branches intertwined,
By Printique Studios2 years ago in Poets
Gentle zephyrs breathe Whispering earth's mysteries Soul, awake, receive
Walked down the road & I Saw them anti…. Things moving mad It was Tricky like Santi…. On the low was calm you know Just before I had to show
By Haychie_Artist2 years ago in Poets
In dawn’s embrace, the whispering winds play, Heralding the birth of a new spring day. The world awakens with a gentle sigh,
By Samuel F2 years ago in Poets
The Anatomy of Us Your affection cuts into me, a specialist with a consistent hand, the surgical blade plunged in moonlight,
By Rony Sutradar2 years ago in Poets
can you interpret, through skilled movement of your body the chaos within the creative mind? can you pirouette in time to the frantic, frenzied sparks
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
“Write a poem about a sunrise.” I asked three AI chatbots—OpenAI’s ChatGPT-4, Google’s Bard, and Anthropic’s Claude—and myself—an 8th grade human. I then surveyed a panel of 38 AI experts and 39 English experts to judge the results. Is AI smarter than an 8th grader?
By Cid2 years ago in Poets
I used to think that birds were okay with singing all morning. But no, they were not. Maybe, all these years they have been waiting for somebody to sing them back. Just maybe, birds sing not because they want to, but because there is nobody around them that sings, in the first place. There is nothing to fill the room around them.
that boy is back in town. you know what they say when he is around, things get 'complicated' as a passive status, not making any miracles.
By ⸘jason alan‽2 years ago in Poets
Your voice is comfort Something I've been waiting for for centuries before I met you and I didn't even know You are life
By Grazie2 years ago in Poets
first bee sting, scraped knee juice dripping down your chin fresh lemon floor cleaner, chairs stacked on the kitchen table
By M.B. Arthur2 years ago in Poets
