Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Mother Your warmth wraps around my mouth And carries my tongue beyond the ego As I breathe you in Ever so gently
By Laura Roklicer3 years ago in Poets
I. I love the sounds you make when you rehearse Your voice, a second focus, light and lithe,
By Amelia Grace Newell3 years ago in Poets
A load sits heavy and a load may grow It may hurt your back Until your burried down below A load may crush you And stomp you out
By Cierra Reign3 years ago in Poets
She finally made her grand appearance placed on my chest where she forever stayed In all the chaos and all the madness Me and her, together we preciously layed
By Georgia Om3 years ago in Poets
I stoked you into existence Yet you have no real substance I’m warmed by your radiance Still I can’t look from your grace
By Chris Santiago3 years ago in Poets
Him: Bizarre, Eccentric, Erratic Me: Blue, Gloomy, Melancholy Him: Full Blooded, Glowing Rosy Me: Bleached, Faded, Palish
By Sandra M3 years ago in Poets
Enlighten my lost soul, With a scent of the delicate petals. I adore how adorable you sound, When your silky words, Wrap me so tightly, so passionately.
My womb is my bedroom ideally outside large open windows to allow sunlight inside each toy and appliance sorted each nook and cranny in its place
By Meli Remborn3 years ago in Poets
Jessica? No, this is not her, It is I, Belinda, Now stealing the show. Beneath the crazy, There is a calm, Knowing that any given moment,
Among the cracks, I see your sweet face, Looking at me softly, Imagining me in your embrace. As I sit by the fire, I feel your warmth,
As I recall the sweet essence of mother’s milk, I envision shades of green towering over me like a uterus as vast as the stars above us allow us to see,
I. Fog off the island Obscures sight – hides cliffs, trees, blooms – Yet nourishes thirsts. II. Grace is all we see;
By Philip Canterbury3 years ago in Poets
