Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Yellow Flowers If I were a yellow flower However should it be? Should the sun bow down to hug me Should the stars shine just to see
By Mariah Fridgen5 years ago in Poets
Braiding everything The return of my Hair crown Signifies something It is a message Of longing I braid my fingers And my legs
By V M5 years ago in Poets
Too long I have spent trying to keep my colours separate. Everything in perfect order. A limited palette, muted for public display, an acceptable parody of matching hues.
By Jennifer Loree5 years ago in Poets
Metre muse Tangles what A box of melted popsicles Pretends to know the sun Wavy line Pencil thought Behind the ear erasable
By David Gifford5 years ago in Poets
a rainbow in my hair that someone else does see the compliment that follows brightening my day a new friendship forming
By Arson Silverman5 years ago in Poets
Color is great That much is not up for debate Eventhough the world has felt grey as of late And even full of hate The beauty of color is something we can all appreciate
By Morgan Turner5 years ago in Poets
Brushes stroke my hair Eyes paint my canvas but it’s still bare I feel the colour as it washes Down the canvas the white wave crashes
By Ellie Christie5 years ago in Poets
I awake to a mystery. I walk along a majestic sea of crystal glass off the coast of my mind's eye my inner man is stirred to a vision
By Matthew Smith5 years ago in Poets
Is it the tender pink fat droplets on my chest Which I need to cover up lest I provoke the man Who cannot control his flesh
By Martina Mifsud5 years ago in Poets
My spirit is pure. Like a mockingbird or a newborn baby’s hue, I describe it as innocent, with the color gray to visualize that.
By Casper the Ghost5 years ago in Poets
My life, a mirage of loss. Fractions of memories and dreams, perhaps not all my own. I am in myself yet I hover. I see my grace and sorrow, my tragedy. My multitudes disorient my sense of time. I am floating.
By Andrea Beert5 years ago in Poets
Everything I know is written on my skin, inked in black, the words that I heed, a breathing journal, my life held within
By Emily Rose 5 years ago in Poets
