art

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

Silence
Silence It is silent pain It is the silent sorrow Like the sky Time has stopped running Lovely clouds
By [email protected]5 years ago in Poets
The Snowman
His life was short, he could only embrace one winter, and it was she who gave him life, and he fell in love with her when spring came.
By Allie5 years ago in Poets
Wait for me
Wait for me I like, writing stories with pencil Always waiting, every night begins The light is very faint, written as lyrics
By Adele5 years ago in Poets
People of the past
Past , Past Past people Like a wave rising and then restoring calm Everything finally returns to the beginning The quiet world is like a mirage
By [email protected]5 years ago in Poets
The impenetrable summer night, the impervious red earth
I'm not used to being ungrateful in my life. This body only fits in the Jianghu old, ashamed of Chang'e a heart. I'm not sure who came too early, but who came too late.
By Chilisauceju5 years ago in Poets
Yellow
as radiant as the sun That shines so effortlessly And as closely combined like honey She blossom within herself Her voice as smooth as a banana
By Tiyana Hopkins5 years ago in Poets
In the future, whose sleeve will you hold
We keep saying goodbye to the time, and we are all people in the story of the red earth. How much of the origin, just because when in the crowd more than a glance at each other; how much of the fate of extinction, all because each other in the unknowingly no longer attached.
By Trollixr5 years ago in Poets
Talking in Technicolor
I was raised to see in black and white In emotion, circumstance... In skin Everything either one or the other My young, creative mind cleaned of all the beauty that lie within
By Tiera Williams5 years ago in Poets
Klick Klack
Occasionally, I get this feeling in my fingers. I feel the itch to make, create, discover. On these days, I reach into my bag of rainbows -
By Hillary5 years ago in Poets
villanelle to my youth
Though I’ve always been told to mind my tongue I carry a wallet of stories in which Boys will be boys, but girls will not be young
By Emma Sikes 5 years ago in Poets
Art Strikes
Sometimes art strikes harder than love. Sometimes it hits you slowly over the range of a few years, as you continue to learn, listen, and grow. It was waiting until you were prepared to know, experientially, casting all concepts aside. Sometimes you‘re not prepared. Art knocks you off your kilter. Can shake the psychological ground beneath your feet, bring you down to your knees, in humble devotion and love.
By Peter Lange5 years ago in Poets
Color Blind
I can’t remember when but the world was drained of color. Incrementally, I morphed into a frog, my brain the pot: waterlogged
By Margo Isabel 5 years ago in Poets