art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

Standing Up To My Fear
I look so small against my fear I thought the winner is not me Its a cycle of fearful voices inside my head 👹👺👻🤡 My enemy keep hounding me
By Mariann Carroll16 days ago in Poets
Entering October
October stands before me, I admire its orange tenacity. Lanterns flicker around the mouth shaped door While a brisk autumn breeze raises goosebumps on my skin. I admire its orange tenacity. Gazing up, large spooky eyes gleam While a brisk autumn breeze raises goosebumps on my skin, I wonder what's beyond. Gazing up, large spooky eyes gleam Haunted hallways stretch beneath my feet. I wonder what's beyond So I enter the smile that sings to me. Haunted hallways stretch beneath my feet. The scent of cinnamon fills the air. So I enter the smile that sings to me I hear a witch's laughter there. The scent of cinnamon fills the air While the cauldron before me bubbles. I hear a witch's laughter there. I continue the journey ahead. While the cauldron before me bubbles, Golden leaves drift down from above. I continue the journey ahead. I embrace the time that I love. Golden leaves drift down from above. Lanterns flicker around the mouth-shaped door. I embrace the time that I love. October stands before me.
By Annie16 days ago in Poets
Nerves Intact...
The following mini inspo poem that I wrote, titled Nerves Intact , was inspired by uber-talented and renowned African-American visual artist Annie Lee's magnificent painting called Satisfied directly below:
By Tiffany Gordon18 days ago in Poets
TROUBLE’S NOT MY NAME
TROUBLE’S NOT MY NAME They pinned the name of Trouble, Upon my winter coat, Then blamed me for the cruel words, That stuck inside my throat.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 18 days ago in Poets
How I Raised the Dead
I was circling because I smelled something fresh-- and then, I saw it lying in the ditch; something had destroyed it, and all that was left were bits of torn carnage, and I picked and pecked and devoured the flesh. Yes, I always swoop in when I smell a death. - Blowflies hummed in the darkness upon my swift descent; pungent were the frenzied maggots, sweet the ripened season's zest. Glimmers from the gloomy crescent glittered silver still duress; bones laid bare in the garden, red the flowers painted carcass. - Harken, hell-bent brethren to how I raised the dead-- having trailed exsanguinated innards o'er vacant heads!
By Sara Wynn18 days ago in Poets
October
If you want to find October, do not look at the calendar. Calendars know nothing about October. They will give you thirty-one little squares and expect you to believe a month can fit inside them.
By Brenda Fluharty18 days ago in Poets
Gethsemane
Introduction This is my hundred-and-seventeenth piece inspired by Angie Livingstone's amazing and magical artwork. "The Art Of The Glittering Fox" and "Glittering Fox Magic" are now available worldwide on your local Amazon store.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 19 days ago in Poets
"right". Top Story - September 2026.
The silence that followed me here leaks into every pore of my being. Magnifying like tiny particles that grew wings and decided they want to be more then a spec of dust. How was I to know that today would be eerie after the noise in my dream that tried to make things clear in the most symbolic of ways. Was it clear enough to pass the message from subconscious to conscious?
By Tanya Leij19 days ago in Poets
Echo
There’s a place inside me that used to answer when someone said my name. It doesn’t anymore. It’s quiet there— too quiet— like a room after the furniture’s been taken but the indent in the carpet still remembers the weight.
By Syl De'Vil19 days ago in Poets
The Shore Was Always There
Life is a struggle, I wander alone. The darkness surrounds me; I’m lost on my own. I drift through the ocean, no shoreline in sight, Surrounded by darkness, consumed by the night. The sky offers nothing, no light to guide me. Will I ever escape? Will I ever be free?
By ChezaLuna21 days ago in Poets
Refraction
There is a prism of light where disavowal takes form. It lies spread eagle on the kitchen table with its hands cut off and feet bound with satin rope.
By Amanda Abela21 days ago in Poets
Where Strange Blooms Grow
Where Strange Blooms Grow There is a garden no map has ever found, where flowers whisper secrets from underneath the ground.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 21 days ago in Poets