art

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

Passion Like A Gypsy
When it comes to art, I’m a gypsy at heart. So many passions I don’t know where to start. I see the world in an array of colors.
By Natalie Dietz5 years ago in Poets
Colors are people
People talk colors, their talk is sweet They describe flowers, their vision is complete They talk of beauty and colors are part of it
By Elvin Aliyev5 years ago in Poets
A Photographer
My heart races as the pages are turning. I paint the pictures. I write the story. With a camera. That is what I do.
By Allison5 years ago in Poets
Imaginary
I spend so much time thinking of beautiful ways to describe things and people, that I forget sometimes they are still just things and people,
By jaime elizabeth5 years ago in Poets
The Garden 2.0
The red rose charms, While colourless blends Of spectral existential Dread spreads, Aimlessly, an affront To the very nature
By Aisla Houghton-Foster5 years ago in Poets
melodrama
is it a singled actor played, re-de-composed? the bewitching witness throes from the transfixed devoted? or little bit of both- rampant imagination beyond control,
By ⸘jason alan‽5 years ago in Poets
God?
I'd hear the word And recoil from it The thought of prayer Left me disgusted How hard it is To face each day While gripping nihilism
By Kelsey Will5 years ago in Poets
Prism
strip me down to bare at first I'm clear as glass you can see right through me on your first and second pass peer a little closer dear
By Roanex5 years ago in Poets
Black & Bold. Winner of True Colors Challenge.
I drink my coffee black because my daddy does. And he’s worked beneath the red, hot, South Carolina sun since I was young, and then some.
By Olivia Robinson5 years ago in Poets
green
green for your eyes. charm and kindness scintillate. so deeply saturated colour cries. for this youth's passing i await.
By the startist5 years ago in Poets
All She Could Do With Red, Yellow, Blue
If comparison kills, why is she so very here? If you could see inside her head, you’d ask why she’s not buried yet. Flick to who she wishes to be, to who she used to be, to what those eyes have seen that make her hate where she’s been.
By Sophia Scott5 years ago in Poets
Orange
Orange. A bright vibrant shade of lonely; No rhyme; no partner in crime. Orange. Set the sky alight but only At dawn; the first shade of morn.
By Charlie Abbott5 years ago in Poets