Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Familiar golden trill. The hollow breast of a singing bowl. A chorus of honey floats into dormant ears. My body tingles in the effervescence of the dawn.
By Madi Worthy5 years ago in Poets
Once a man in a film that was blind, in a film, described the colors of the yellow leaves falling and the light sinking down on the alley by the church at 4pm in the afternoon,
By Lili Bloom5 years ago in Poets
creating something from something less interesting a coating of peach, the softness of my skin, pockets of blemishes and smile lines
By Callista Kinnan5 years ago in Poets
Yellow is the sound of deep, rich strings, Freedom, goodbyes, rubber gloves. A chorus of colour, waterfall of light. Is rain even rain if you can’t hear it?
By Erin James5 years ago in Poets
You are dark; like the soil which houses all life. Dark as the night sky, which spreads out like a canvas for all existence to be painted on.
By Reem Amine5 years ago in Poets
And I am made of resonant colours. Here is the petal-pink of my cheekbones, the night-blue veins that decorate my skin.
By Molly H Anderson5 years ago in Poets
I am as beautiful as the starry night I am different from most people on sight I am unique for my gift of creativity Black is the color of darkness and formality
By Melissa Dahl5 years ago in Poets
StartWhen I was young My world was drenched in purple Gleaming with glitter As I bounded over each hurdle Ashamed and shy
By Kaela Fisch5 years ago in Poets
Yellow as the ripened lemon, fallen from the tree. Reminding me to be grounded in my presence, as I become more grateful for the present.
By B.A Hathor5 years ago in Poets
You cannot tell me anything When I’m in my purple shirt I hear the words you hurl my way Believe me, they don’t hurt My purple sleeves like chain mail
By Sean McCabe5 years ago in Poets
It is all of you that makes me, me. Your unique shade of red Fragmenting in ever so Exquisite hues. I drink it up and offer you mine -
By Whitney McMarks5 years ago in Poets
self portrait as paint it’s like this: there’s a paint in your palette that you never use. it wants to be used. it sits and waits and wants so badly to be picked,
By Avery Lewis5 years ago in Poets
