art

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

Bigelow Tea
Bigelow Tea. I turn on the water and let the faucet water get cold. Maine has the best Drinking water. I fill my cup with cold water and add my reusable metal straw.
By Erica Jordan5 years ago in Poets
The Gambler
On the felt Green table You're up that day. Ashtray by your side Crackling smoke slivers through The gap when you peeked at your cards
By Vinnie Quan5 years ago in Poets
Me Myself And I
I see you everywhere I leave I hear you everywhere I run I feel you everywhere I leave my strangest friend and friendliest stranger we're the same even though so different you show me the ugly yet the truth of myself inside me you stay chained in a prison of solitude hoping praying waiting for your chance the more tears I shed the looser your chains become the more pain I endure the weaker your cage becomes and stronger you get we aren't so different you and me the more my heart cracks the closer we are to becoming one.
By LC5 years ago in Poets
Heaven's Bay
What shall I say, to keep heaven at bay When ones words seem so contrite to thine heart And I feel as if to shudder into decay
By Justin Law5 years ago in Poets
Click.
It's a start, an end. A place beyond the furrowed bend, where things come together and fall apart. Click. Are we picking up the pieces? No.
By Gadsby O'Dhare5 years ago in Poets
battery
Hell of a time - the clock's acidic, corrosive. Care-away-way seeds that burn in second hand of my right arm. They stick in your teeth. You have to eat them, or they slip through right through the fingers and onto the face.
By Gadsby O'Dhare5 years ago in Poets
Artist
She sat amongst the paint brushes, her soul it did feel spent. As colours dripped around her, her heart felt it would rend.
By Teresa Turner5 years ago in Poets
Portrait in Red and Grey
You, who think to take an artist for a lover who sees the sensual Nude his inspiration, the object of his affection so, aspiring to be rendered thusly
By Lisa Richardson5 years ago in Poets
Insects Landing In Formation
The insects landed in formation – just as he had started painting, irritation, concentration on the opus of his canvas It was a portrait of himself, dark and brooding – thoughtful even – this could really make him famous that was till the insects landed
By Divsie Flood5 years ago in Poets
The Museum Piece
Here I sit in darkness, resting for centuries. My life before was so vibrant, colorful, useful. But no one wants a broken vessel.
By Kimberly Byrnes5 years ago in Poets
The Death of An Artist
The paint in her blood just evaporated. Now when she got hurt Creation did not spring forth Just standard haemoglobin.
By Stace Oddity5 years ago in Poets
I Am Me
Running low on patience, running low on energy, So tired and weak that I can’t even see, The future used to be in my hands but I dropped it everything, all of my plans,
By Mimi Sparkes5 years ago in Poets