art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
I Am Not the Type of Story
It seems that whenever I pick up a pen I can only write about sins. I do know, and this I can tell you, These words are not going to be fun to read.
A City Awakens
Wide awake as the first train passes with diesel engine roaring its good morning I contemplate another stormy winters day and how many cluster headaches will visit my brain today!
Aunidan Christi KPGSPublished 5 years ago in PoetsThe Whole Notion
Muscle memory and bone used to pick Up cumbersome objects makes work so smart. Despite the thing being thin or just thick,
Skyler SaundersPublished 5 years ago in PoetsBellum/Bella
Is bellum bella? Does it possess traits That aestheticians would deem as the good? Is war the harsh hygiene of the sore straits,
Skyler SaundersPublished 5 years ago in PoetsUnknown
Witnesses a murder of the unknown. Sent to take a lie detector test. When being hooked up the man notices the heart begin to race at levels close to a heart attack.
Talk About the Heavens
The inner workings of the brain must stand As more profound than the whole universe. The mind is all that must seek to demand
Skyler SaundersPublished 5 years ago in PoetsSilver Hair
Silver hair, silver hair It’s Christmas time at The Villages Ring-a-ling, I can’t hear a thing Soon it will be Christmas Day
Somber Silhouettes
I remember the day I met you. We spoke the life into nature. You created wisdom to the letters I didn't know. You spoke to me with beautiful creations.
LovelyShelterPublished 5 years ago in PoetsStevie Sees
With eyes that clear the mind of its cache They were silenced in his most youthful times. They’re beautiful, like a lady’s dress sash.
Skyler SaundersPublished 5 years ago in PoetsStrange Fruit Hanging from My Ceiling Fan
Cracked is my cranium; So, therefore as they do— I change with the seasons. Every time the clouds come, They somehow sink into my broken dome. The sun—
Remi McDonaldPublished 5 years ago in PoetsWhere Are Your Weapons?
Even as the debris hindered my movement The first drops from the lead shower appeared in our vicinity They washed the homes
Adam KhamisPublished 6 years ago in PoetsConstant Defense
A standing collar of midnight blue brings Out the solemn regard in honor of The fallen. In silence, the mind just sings The thoughts of fighters below and above.
Skyler SaundersPublished 6 years ago in Poets