sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
When
wisened women waylaid, woefully warned with weaponized words. willfully wounded with wants warped, wombs wilted, wishes wasted. wingless wanderers wary with waning wonder wait. warriors whispering, why? witnesses watching wicked 'wage' wars, withstanding wretched waves wringing weary wayfarers. when will wrongful whims withdraw, warrant worthwhile ways?
Heather HublerPublished about a year ago in PoetsClarity at the Bottom of the Hole
You offered to sit and chat when you were in the area. Two long months since we saw each other and I feel your absence as if it were a severed hand.
creeping
careful child creeping carefully crawling corridors collide confidential conversations carry carelessly catch coping counterfeit compliments
Muchtar SuryawanPublished about a year ago in PoetsSad Life
Silent tears fall like rain, As I stand alone in the pain, Memories flood my shattered heart, As I watch us fall apart.
I think they buried him in Colusa
For the ones still standing: I never liked you But here in the grass you’re soft Holding folded flags --- I want to say I spent every moment
Lisa HerdmanPublished about a year ago in PoetsYKK
Y’know it was ten years ago, your bashful eyes sparked my ego. Yin and yang, I thought, but hell-- YOLO! (Cringe.) So off I go...
Addison AlderPublished about a year ago in PoetsThe Power of Forgiveness
The power of forgiveness is a gift, A strength that knows no bounds, Healing our wounded hearts, And the pain that we've always found.
Mutahir AhsanPublished about a year ago in PoetsLight Shines in Me & You
In the realm of spirituality and faith, We find a light that illuminates the path, A source of strength, that gives us hope,
Mutahir AhsanPublished about a year ago in PoetsOnly Us
I don't speak but : " Juts because I don't show it, Doesn't means that I don't feel it..."
M. Ashar javedPublished about a year ago in PoetsThe Golden Mirror
In the depths of the forest, where the trees are tall and old Lies a cottage made of stone, with a story to be told It's said to be the home of a woman, with eyes of emerald green And hair that flows like a river, the strangest woman ever seen
Vivid MasonganyikaPublished about a year ago in PoetsPalm Sunday
On Palm Sunday, a donkey bore A humble king, not rich in gold But rich in love, and grace, and more Than any treasure could behold.
Masterpiece of Vision
Beauty and aesthetics, a symphony of art, A world of wonder, that speaks to the heart, The colors that blend, the lines that curve,
Mutahir AhsanPublished about a year ago in Poets