Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
[Verse] Let me share your dreams tonight The ones you hide behind closed eyes That secret map within your mind I want to see the stars you chase
By Julie O'Hara - Author, Poet and Spiritual Warriorabout a year ago in Poets
Verse] I don’t know if you want to hear this But, girl, the world’s still turning... It's still spinning wide And there’s a stranger somewhere out there smiling
In the morning pallor as the world pushes forward the sun swoons the poppies to pop their flower and I miss my leaning tower
By Pixel Floydabout a year ago in Poets
Breath of Life I remember the quiet of your absence, how it settles in the room like heavy dust. I hold my hands to the hollow space,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
Stop it right now! I’m talking to you! Yes you, the one who is an empath too Don’t you text them one more thing Ahh what did I just say!
By Lady DJ Shimaeabout a year ago in Poets
Your eyes are a whimsical forest of evergreen I love the way the rays of the sun break through your leaves of green From wildflowers to silent creeks that flow
By Bixi Hernandezabout a year ago in Poets
Goodbye is supposed to be simple. A word, a nod, a closing of the door. It should sound like footsteps fading and the hush of silence that comes
By Hussain about a year ago in Poets
Children Should Be Taught Manners Children should be taught manners. It is not good to hear a child swear. A soft word is better than sharp words,
I keep my door closed now... but it's closed and not locked There's only one man I allow inside and he never even had to knock
By Sara Wilsonabout a year ago in Poets
Tween rattlesnakes and grains of sand I count bad choices on one hand Fell for the lies, sold second chances in redirected happenstances
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
The Carnival of Love lights hum in the night air, faces pressed close in laughter, eyes catch sparks no one else sees, hands brush, linger longer than reason.
The Language of Hands They speak without tongues, soft syllables pressed in palms, a grammar of warmth, where fingers fold like paragraphs,
By Numan writesabout a year ago in Poets
