art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Rebirth
maybe just maybe you have to crumble fall apart completely blindly, hopelessly feel around for all your pieces get acquainted with
Kaylin BeverPublished 6 years ago in PoetsZombie
Zombie Glorified And sought after Dead and brain seeking What if we are the zombies Stuck in routine Mundane With no sense of freedom
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in PoetsTwisted Fairy Tale(s)
—The Little Writer— i lost the glass slipper that is my mind somewhere behind me i sold my soul to the sea witch just for a good story
Take Charge
Now is the time To take charge of your life To accept yourself And all of the things in line Step by step Finding out where you stand
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in PoetsBad Idea
Bad Idea i have an idea is this the one i have an idea are my days of woe done i have an idea this might be fun
Nick JackhassPublished 6 years ago in PoetsMy Body Is an Instrument
My body is an instrument played for only few Playing majors and minors and other lovely tunes played for only few are the songs I choose to hide
Daisy BoonePublished 6 years ago in PoetsI Was a Broken Clock
I have never been great at keeping friends. Sometimes I wonder if many people are. Or whether we are just friends with people because of close proximity. For example, they go to school with us, they live near us or they go to work with us. Therefore, we can rely on them to be there for us. At least that's what I've experienced as a female and seen other females' experience. I know I shouldn't generalise but I do see more men traveling in packs more than women. My boyfriend and my dad are both still very close with the friends they had in primary school. Whereas, I have one friend from primary school who I don't see very often at all.
Victoria-Louise SweetPublished 6 years ago in PoetsRelease
Walking away Is never easy It gives you strength The ending of something Can be hard Sad and even blue But never the less
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in PoetsA Poetic Death
My pen ran out of ink a long time ago, before that it was a paper heaux, spreading its liquids amid different pages, faithful only to the creative stages,
I AM. Master of ArtsPublished 6 years ago in PoetsSugar or Salt
Do you taste When your words Spew like fire When you throw A pity party Because you crave desire When you let your mouth run wild
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in PoetsCan You See
What is seen When you look in the mirror Is it the reflective glaze Of your most terrifying fears Is it the sorrow That seeps past your eyes
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in PoetsIrreplaceable
Have you ever seen a star cry While it shines in the brightness Of the full blue moon No tears of sorrow No anger No grief
Kayton HickenlooperPublished 6 years ago in Poets