Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
thinking about that month, those weeks, a day years shuffled at an intentionally hurried pace, with places to go, no time to stay
By Todd Worrell6 years ago in Poets
Things are always difficult, And life always takes its toll. How can we get anywhere, If we don't take control? But surrender is an option,
By Paige Graffunder6 years ago in Poets
Where am I to go? This here, I don't know. I'm not sure what do or who to turn to. It feels like everything I say, gets taken the wrong way.
By Cass A6 years ago in Poets
Vincent saw flowers. He saw long soft leaves like locks of hair and great blue flapping flowers with golden beaks— or perhaps he saw green, vertical life
By Kaelyn Peay6 years ago in Poets
World renowned artist, versatile in his approach, never boxed in, very free spirit, the chains of life set the fire to speak, speak up for his people in a way people would see,
By Diamond Dreams Movement6 years ago in Poets
Clomp, clomp, Shush, here he comes. Clomp, clomp, Monster, feet like drums. Click, click, Body shaking. Click, click,
By Mel E. Furnish6 years ago in Poets
Life itself as turned into a lemon Spraying sour juice on everything. That’s why your eyes burn when you go outside. That’s why you feel like your throat is dry.
By Serrena Gragg6 years ago in Poets
Guitar strings make my fingers bleed All of these riffs and taps is all I need Heed with steed noblemen of free These might be the last strings to make me bleed
By Obi Abassi6 years ago in Poets
I wonder if he talks about Hockney to others or if he just does that with me? And what if I wanted to just brush black circular
By Didi Menendez6 years ago in Poets
There is nothing to pinpoint Of the strange beast. Only images, Blurred and refracted, Fleeing down a hallway Of mirrors.
By Erin Suurkoivu6 years ago in Poets
CHAINS Crawling on hands and knees, something holds us back. How can we fly with these chains we bear? Add another; we will carry our prison with us until we crack.
Colours splashed across the page my hands flew all over the place as if they had a creative mind the colours started to turn into a face.
By David Boers6 years ago in Poets
