Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
I start with the way she looks at me, steady, unguarded, like she already knows the truth I’m still learning to speak. There’s a kind of hush in that moment,
By Printique Studiosabout a month ago in Poets
There are words we are taught early—please, thank you, sorry—and words we spend the rest of our lives mispronouncing. I learned this one late.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Poets
Every flame begins with a rupture. Every rose blooms from a fracture. This is not a ritual of control, but a ceremony of creation.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a month ago in Poets
In oceans deep, where currents softly sigh, A city sleeps, beneath a boundless sky Of shifting waves, a world of crystal gleam,
By The 9x Fawdiabout a month ago in Poets
At twilight's hush, when stars begin to gleam, A phantom whistle tears the fading dream. The platform sighs, a forgotten, dusty stage,
The last hearth sits In the sea of eternal frost Amongst the once proud pines Ever lit It wards against the darkness
By Matthew J. Frommabout a month ago in Poets
When the fire lights small like a candle, my feelings were okay- calm, relaxed, happy … When the fire lights medium like a torch, my feelings were slightly okay-
By Meghan LeVaughn about a month ago in Poets
I used to believe that becoming a writer would arrive with a sound—trumpets, perhaps, or at least a clean click, like a lock finally turning. I imagined a day when the doubt would lift its coat from the back of my chair and leave the room for good. Instead, it stayed. It learned my habits. It brewed coffee. It read over my shoulder.
By Luna Vaniabout a month ago in Poets
It is not of berry, nor ocean's spray, But a silent hum on the tongue's soft way. A chill, electric, where twilight sleeps,
In halls of hushed antiquity, where dust motes dance in gold, A silent symphony resides, stories untold, yet bold. Through towering shelves of shadowed wood, where ages softly sleep,
By HAADIabout a month ago in Poets
The End of Love... In Silence The end of love came not with a bang, but with a silence that resembles the death of beautiful things when they are forgotten.
By Mo,Ghandourabout a month ago in Poets
