Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
I was once told to show my personality through my actions, Not my presentation I was once told to quiet my look, So my soul could be louder
By Katelyn Ziegenhagen5 years ago in Poets
Searching for the perfect ratio, smooth light illuminates the scene, brightness regulated, controlled and calculated, the true false of composition
By Hope 5 years ago in Poets
Is it possible for me to see me? The true me that I want them to see Or…Do I see what I want to see? A dab more here and a bit more there
By Rachel Pizzolato5 years ago in Poets
Grey, was the color of the atmosphere of my rainy grey city 9/12 times a year that I disliked strongly Black, represented the color of my Black Panther leader of Seattle chapter family I grew up in and only family I ever knew.
By isaiah estep 5 years ago in Poets
Symphony Of Colors There is a fracture in my universe, a bleeding of my soul No cosmic good or use for us, unless we heal this whole
By Saffron Sage5 years ago in Poets
I’m made of color, like a box of crayons ready to create, but instead of staying in the lines my colors run deep. Covering every part of my life.
By Brenley Sanders5 years ago in Poets
Poetry was an unknown identity, it wasn't until I found that There are things only black can do, only black can pursue, only black can renew that I found the Glory of a new Day. From the bellow of my ancestors it is the way made most true.
By Soteria Shepperson5 years ago in Poets
we bleed onto devastatingly blank canvases, we fill them up with the shades of us, blooming colors like blooming tea,
By Allyson Rachel Infante5 years ago in Poets
They assure me I am ready with my hands dipped in blue. They tell me that they've been waiting. I look far beyond at the horizon and check:
By Yin Xzi Ho5 years ago in Poets
Colors Everything is made of color the beautiful Blue sky above the Green grass under foot the Silver radiance that sparkles
By Seth Graham5 years ago in Poets
(Mornings, before school, mum rubs vaseline on my face until I am a mirror. She wants me to understand I am a reflection of my parent.)
By K PB5 years ago in Poets
In the stillness of spring, Still reverberating, The overtones still fade And for goodness sake, But not for good. /
By Max O'Rourke5 years ago in Poets
