Arts + Entertainment
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From the Lips of Children
"Do you hear what these children are saying?" they asked him. "Yes," replied Jesus, "have you never read, "'From the lips of children and infants you, Lord, have called forth your praise'?"
Wilson GeraldoPublished 7 years ago in GeeksPaper Books
This tin tacked spider’s web consumes my pin cushion heart. I spiral in this sepia stained world, screaming with sounds. We skip and skid towards the ever looming cult.
Charlie MillerPublished 7 years ago in PoetsNorfolk Nourishment
Home is the crisp autumn leaves: Burnt orange, gilded, as fire breathes. Nature is the wool around my heart, A breeze filling my lungs, never apart.
Chloe UrquhartPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Oblivious Child
Wake up. Yawn, stretch, breathe. Shower, get clothed.Turn on the phone. Straight to Facebook.The News is all over my timeline. 'Kindergarten burned down over night'Break. Tears filling up my face, I can't hold it in.My childhood, burnt down in a matter of hours. Memories filling up my brain, I need to remember. I need to remember everything. Because now I have no chance of going back to relive it. It's dead.I knew nothing of hurt and heartbreak. Of terror or oppression.I want to feel oblivious and unknowing once again.Please take me back in time.
Ella CostelloPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Natural Body
My skin is my continental plate hiding the web of blood vessels and ivory. My bones are made of stone and moss, held together by centuries of pressure
Jocelyn WhitePublished 7 years ago in PoetsLoveÑWar
Damned if you do damned if you don't/ It's hard to win. Never said it was impossible/ It just ain't easy kid. #LoveIsABattlefield/
ElNinõ The_princePublished 7 years ago in Poets"Little Jester"
Painted face and silly shoes give you the illusion of being Always know, though, that you're actually nothing But that's ok.
Duanyell WilliamsPublished 7 years ago in PoetsRain
Let's dive down the formless arrays of the colours before us; taste the moisture of the hidden songs in every ripple, waltzing down every inch of these droplets, fallen from the heavens, waiting to emerge out of your traumatic spectrum — in disguise of dark clouds.
Philip von GravePublished 7 years ago in Poets