Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
First light, you tilt your head, asking if I remember the dream— the one where the hallway stretched like taffy, and we ran,
By Printique Studiosabout a year ago in Poets
How can 2 souls connect, when the physical plane lies? Lies in disconnect, bodies lost in retrospect, beyond the hidden realms.
By Wild MacroLove about a year ago in Poets
A journey without pain Is a journey without growth No reward for the champion No pride in survival If all is trifle How many times can one be made anew
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Is love truly love, if it is not Velcroed to sacrifice? Is love truly love, if it doesn't ripple out on the lake of existence?
By Rowan Finley about a year ago in Poets
Sex on the run She is his bitch, he’s her desire, A flame that flickers, fueled by fire. They hide away from prying eyes,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
hide and speak. you find me, forgetting i'm not lost and i don’t need saving. i am authentic at any cost except myself.
By ⸘jason alan‽about a year ago in Poets
There's a chill up in your spine, baby, can you feel it? Your laughter and beauty are a melody, sweet like a secret. We pull each other in close, like we're the last two alive,
By Forest Greenabout a year ago in Poets
cigarettes and sipping jack never really were my thing givin' idle threats and talking smack so we remember what you think
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
Beautiful Eyes Oh, those eyes, like stars in the night, ✨ A cosmic dance of shimmering light. Deep as oceans, they pull me near, 🌊
By Am@n Khan about a year ago in Poets
* We trip over the urge of feeling alive like it's something that could be discovered But desire sees love, with fate's mismatched eyes
Before the silence claims me whole, Before the dusk erases light, Let me unfurl what's in my soul— The things I dream in quiet night.
By Muhammad waqasabout a year ago in Poets
I loved her to the point of invention, to the point where logic bent like steam pipes in summer, where equations blurred and the hourglass on my desk no longer measured minutes
By Diane Fosterabout a year ago in Poets
