I went to my thesaurus to find a word, a word I could use in place of yellow. I was trying to write a poem without using the letter ‘e.’
By Gerry Thibeault10 months ago in Poets
The Space Between Heartbeats There is a place where love does not speak, it lives between one heartbeat and the next. Not loud or desperate for attention,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 10 months ago in Poets
“To make a difference in someone’s life, you don’t have to be brilliant, rich, beautiful or perfect. You just have to care.”
By Ruth Elizabeth Stiff10 months ago in Poets
DNA My DNA carries the echo of lifetimes, threads woven long before I arrived, and every cell holds a quiet message, written by those who walked before me.
vibrant and saturated the colors of a true heart never fade gradients arrange and repeat the values lay broken a square of earth down ten feet
By ⸘jason alan‽10 months ago in Poets
A Message to Eternity I wrote the words upon a page that trembled, the ink sinking slowly into fibres like memory, and the night leaned close as if wanting to listen,
The night carried a thin layer of moisture, as if the rain still trembled behind the clouds. On the edge of the old town stood a worn-out house whose window lamps often extinguished on their own. But tonight… tonight a strange and vivid light gleamed from within.
By Anas Khan10 months ago in Poets
Her smile is worth its weight in (rose) gold. She makes magic of scraps of hopes and dreams. She is broken and bruised and hard to hold.
By Lizzy Rose10 months ago in Poets
If I met God on a public train, this is what I think God would say. "Hello, God—how's it going?" "It's going fine, babe… but where are you going?"
By A.K. Treadwell 10 months ago in Poets
He Who I Value, Love and Hate I see him standing in the doorway of my days, holding pieces of me that I never meant to give,
We sat on opposite couches, But it always felt like two buildings across a narrow alley. Your stories lit up your face like a late-night kitchen light;
By Milan Milic10 months ago in Poets
My roots live deep beneath my skin, quiet, steady, holding stories I never fully tell. They are the hands that raised me,
By Kashif Wazir10 months ago in Poets
