art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
White
Literally, figuratively, and physicallyWhite is as much a feelingas it is a physicalityLiterally it is white, bare, blankFiguratively it carries joy, and also instabilityIt is both wonder and nothingnessPhysically it is absence. Absence of color, of melanin, of blood
By Frankie Knight8 years ago in Poets
I Told You & You Told Me
I don’t get it, I treated you so well I held onto you, I was killing myself, you told me you loved me, and I was so stupid I believed it, watching you tear my heart into pieces, you told me you cared, but I felt you didn’t, 'til we really hit the end and I knew you couldn’t, to watch you move on, it hurt like a bitch, even though you already knew that my heart wasn’t always built as strong as a brick, I told you my past and that I wanted us to last, but then I told you it wouldn’t last if you keep doing the same shit in the past, but the way things went I knew how you wer thinking, I felt you, I felt how you were feelin', but the shit you did put me through the ceiling, that's the moment when my emotions ran high and I felt as if I wanted to die but instead I just sat there and cried wishing the shit you said to me wasn’t a lie.
By Jenise vega8 years ago in Poets
The Feeling Of...
What do you feel when you fall asleep in the backseat of a car? When the car starts to move and the uncomfortable way the seatbelt buckles dig into your side. So you roll over, face down onto the plush seat of your father’s old convertible and now you start to feel the warmth and the soft rumble of the engine that lulls you to sleep.
By Dani Oliver8 years ago in Poets
No More Beauty
And she finally gave up. Her tray of colors that made her world bright was scraped dry of all it’s paint. No more yellows to make the sun less grim, no more greens to make the grass less terrifying and no more blues to take out the sorrow from the sky. She had no paint to create the world that she wanted everyone to see, that she hoped to see. For a while it was like she never ran out of paint because her memory kept her world full of color but memories fade just like the colors the world was once again gray, grim and full of sorrow. It was like her painted world had froze over by -60°. She begin to feel the way the world looked she wore gray on her skin, sorrow on her face and sadness on her lips but no one noticed. No one noticed that the world has changed color along with her skin no one noticed that the paint buckets were too high for her to reach; all she needed was a little help to paint her world back into color
By Kylie Dunaway8 years ago in Poets
