art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Undeserving
Undeserving I am of you You've always demonstrated love that is true I tried to have my cake and eat it too Chance after chance you gave me
Garvin RayePublished 7 years ago in PoetsLife
You either fuck the world, or let the world fuck you. The pain can feel so good, making you cum with sadness. It's addicting, like the inhale of a morning cigarette.
Jessica RasilePublished 7 years ago in PoetsHoliday Routine
I’ve worked hard all week From the papaya dawn To mauve dusk Counting the days Till I get on that flight Jumping in and out the shower
Chloe GilholyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWhat Is Your Potion
What is your potion? Is it giving higher power your devotion Staying loyal never foldin Do you stay talking But you're never truly open
Dasia DiggsPublished 7 years ago in PoetsHaunted for Years
I need to get fried or find a ride before the tide swallows me whole. I'd love to escape this place before I get raped, playing with tape always gets you into a sticky situation. I'm looking for a correlation between my mind and how kind i can be. I'd rather not bother than be bind into a line with prisoners and convicts who would cause hectic septic problems. I should really start writing with a pen this pencils giving me a bad omen from my pointless nights of roamin' i curled myself out of bed this morning i was curled in a ball wishing that the fall would arrive. The cold couldn't turn these old permafrost hands for another long season with the only reason of this being is the cigarette smoke and the caffeine running through my veins like my constant growing pains. Listening and looking into bright eyes until my personal flight arises it's quite surprising how depressing someone can be just from a single death. Life has taken advantage of this fallen love, is this really the way to mourn and heal the pain? To fix troubles upon you, to pass them on with mixed emotions and manipulative intentions? Fevers and fevers and mirrors will now haunt me for years. Constantly missing the woman I was once kissing, I'm stuck, just my luck. Best friends are lost... That's what it all cost, i'm feeling like jack frost the way no one believes in me makes it so painful to be alone I've lost all sense of home no place to put my gnome, oh how i'd like to roam around and finally get known. Finally shown how to truly live free.
Joseph GrantPublished 7 years ago in PoetsDarling
Creature in my own home. There's this Creature they all condemn. My place of rest, of solitude let's not forget. This space of reality
Katya AnastasiaPublished 7 years ago in PoetsBlue State of Mind
Yea that pretty girl with the puffy hair who will treat you good, cook your favorite meal feed you with freedom and sex-appeal
Why We Write...
We write when we can’t tell anyone but the page how we feel. And when putting pen to paper feels like an act of rebellion.
Emily DurstonPublished 7 years ago in PoetsMusic of Illusion
My compassion towards music is like the moves of the trees as it flows through the breeze whistling into my ears like it's nothing what it seems, that it captured my heart which feels like it's a whole new me. As I shut my eyes closed I start becoming captivated by the sound of the clashing leaves that are falling down freely through the breeze like they are having a party, just being hypnotized thinking I'm in a whole new world where I can be free doing anything from what I believe which makes things magical as it can be.
Maliya. RiaPublished 7 years ago in PoetsClassic
Byron bites backa romantic’s attemptto save literaturea nominal heroobscuringan alter-ego under the cover of nightmoonlit-nocturnesa composition inE Flatmuch to Chopin’schagrin theinextricably linkedliterary musemusic
Strawberry Oil Change
Technician number 75 Carries two week old yogurt In his hands blackened with oil Back to his station he goes Eating spoonfuls of near rancid
Malex WolfePublished 7 years ago in Poetsunwritten
falling in love at a used bookstore it’s everything that remains unwritten the spaces in between words an inkless infatuation