In silence born, in silence fall, A whisper rolling down the wall Of cheeks that once held pride so high— Now drenched beneath a weeping sky.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Poets
Poetry: In the hush of night, he stands alone, A soul half-lost, in silence grown. Smoke spirals like forgotten dreams, Woven through moon's silver beams.
On the curve of night, where silence bends, A soul sits still as the dark transcends. Upon a branch that dares to dream, He rides the hush of moonlight’s beam.
I. The Dawn of Breath From silence sprung a whisper deep, Where stars and soil in cradle sleep, A breath was drawn, the first of flame,
Petals Against the Silence By Sahil’s Reflection She leans on stone that does not feel, A mask of time, so cold, so real.
I smile from behind my morning coffee, offer you the easy answer—“I’m fine”— that glitters like the surface of a polished coin,
By Stefano D'angelloabout a year ago in Poets
I’m a stranger in a strange land The fan chugga chugga chugs As it blows away paper thugs The world shrugs As we slink like slugs
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
believing our-selves to be exceptionally kind to them while expecting them to be absolutely mean and unfair towards, these painful imaginations causes for imagination to imagine pictures and create thoughts at the center of which is a picture of self-pity, of being downtrodden, of needing care or of being special or thinking of oneself as"different"; a completely different and unique individual/human being that needs to be making special and interesting decisions and intelligence must be entirely absent from them
By Queen fabout a year ago in Poets
Quis Curat They say Chase another carrot Ferreting out their sins Where does it end? A society built on lies Incapable of being wrong
How to Disappear Without Anyone Noticing Genre: Poets / Psyche / Social Com Style: Poetic diary/narrative fragments Day 1
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Poets
I was born of earth and light, Where soil and sun in secret write The name of all who walk the land, Molded by dust, shaped by hand.
By Jacky Kapadiaabout a year ago in Poets
Not just the grit beneath the nail After the trowel scrapes the pail, Nor just the chill of morning dew On poured-slab surfaces, slate-blue
