art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

Be like Water
She moves with ease Elegant yet simple like the breeze She trickles along sometimes fast Sometimes slow one could never
By Kaden Fisk4 years ago in Poets
Nirvana in the Ashtray
Say All Your Preyers From the hand of the foe to the prey of indifference Scribble shoddy pentagrams between The chickenscratch math drawn 'neath the lines
By J.C. Traverse4 years ago in Poets
meditate
something new every day Witness history every day Flip through the phone every day Afraid of missing something . Comment on the international situation
By koopm zac4 years ago in Poets
When The World Goes Quiet
When the world goes quiet, That’ll be a happy day. Imagine all the noise is gone, Sometimes that’s all I pray. No children throwing tantrums,
By A. González4 years ago in Poets
crossroads in shibuya
standing at a crossroads in Shibuya the only one with tattoos who isn't Yakuza the black and white lines, no need to use them,
By Munro Campbell4 years ago in Poets
Blinding Light
You see my nose. I smell your fear. You see my lips. I can taste your bile. You see my forehead. My third eye sees right through you.
By Whitney Lynn Hayes4 years ago in Poets
Specter
Determined eyes we’re set a blaze, To fight for glory, crown and praise. To graze like sheep, roam the days Tear down the villain for Hero’s sake.
By Catalina Ortega4 years ago in Poets
Prick
I’m in the Mall’s food-court again somehow and I didn’t order this drink I mean I did order a drink but not this obviously diet
By Joey Rounds4 years ago in Poets
Fires of Columbia
your glory rained down on my shoulders. Your vanity hit my face like a bright, unapologetic sun. My fires set you dreaming, setting the bar higher.
By Melissa Ingoldsby4 years ago in Poets
polysyllabicity. Runner-Up in After the Parade Challenge.
i'm confident. a social butterfly. my cloud-like silhouette slinks delicately through a sea of lavish patrons pasted together to welcome the new year.
By brittany schmidt 4 years ago in Poets
Wayward
He treads unfamiliar land, with a foreign sky above his head, An endless path, an eternal track, he knew not what lay ahead
By Jade Cappelen4 years ago in Poets
My Life
The strange thing about memories is that they are not in chronological order. I recall events that took place, but they are scattered across multiple timelines and worlds. I feel like an outsider when I look back at my past self; I want to know who she is and what she has been through, and I want to put myself in her shoes, as I do with most strangers. It is like knowing every mistake someone will make, but not knowing what they will do next. I, like the past me, will cease to exist one day. I'm terrified of that day.
By Kate Wilson4 years ago in Poets