Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
I am making eye contact with- Fire held in a handmade house- Set on a table- - Aromas of freshly cut coconuts- Or of rainforests after a shower from the sky-
By Jada Ferguson3 years ago in Poets
A poem about the feeling I like to avoid the most: nothingness void. And around the thoughts around that feeling I make, until I realize that feeling I don't hate, and for sure it will accompany me till the last of my days.
By Matt B.3 years ago in Poets
I am here, but I am apart A subconscious mantra that echoes Always A truth in the depths of my soul And though I should question why
By Vicious Avarice3 years ago in Poets
The grass is always greener On the other side So you left me in search of it I see you rolling around Playing with your new soil
In a past life the day didn't always start with the sunrise. In a past life the day didn't always have a "routine." In a past life the habit was a wash of hot mess of whirling and wringing. A fierce force, sometimes of my own fruition, a sucking the marrow out of life kind of thing. Other times... Other times, life was leading me. At some points there would be rough routines, but nothing close to an imaginable "mundane" of traditional life.
By Talya3 years ago in Poets
He said he was an angel As he sat to take my hand And slowly we descended To hell as he had planned We walked through the gardens
Man's man..such a strange phrase I'm not sure that translates the way you think it does Men's work, women's work Can't it just be work
By Paul Stewart3 years ago in Poets
You spent so much time in my presence That I never realized How much I valued your absence
Leave me alone… I never understood those words Until today Before I thought they meant ‘Go away’ Maybe ‘Not right now’
If sweet a medley rose From engine of the skin, Then every chance is coined An enterprise in time, Some purpose beating there,
By Christian Lee3 years ago in Poets
Cashmere Woods A 4 second spray of from heaven. I have always craved the fresh sweep of autumn leaves in October. The sound, the feeling of the crumble in my hands.
By Greg Wilcox3 years ago in Poets
Simple bound pads of paper, Dotted or lined, doesn’t matter. Partially used or completely blank There’s much imagination at stake.
By Jackie Barrows3 years ago in Poets
