art

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

poems . Content Warning.
LIFLIFE IS NOT EQUAL What about the baby then? Her little deformed back And that was all due to her mother's small amount of crack addiction.
By Wayne 2 years ago in Poets
Babble
Sometimes, I’m afraid of making bad art. Art that disrespects the artform. As if the artform has some platonic standard that must be met. There are days when I don’t think I have the skillset to meet that ideal. Where I am all aspiration but no ability.
By Tarik Murrell2 years ago in Poets
Do it, or Do it not
When you feel like giving up And nothing seems to go your way Remember what master Yoda said And do or do not, there is no try
By Dave H.2 years ago in Poets
Being alive is a mystery
I am the riddle of the ages The mystery that none can solve I am the key to many pages The lock that none can ever evolve
By Dave H.2 years ago in Poets
POEMS. Content Warning.
A Psalm of Life, first Inform me not in somber numbers, Nothing more than a fantasy, life! Because of sleep, the soul is dead.
By Wayne 2 years ago in Poets
Light
I am the light That will cleanse all I’m the builder of all that is good and love In a world that chooses to destroy and hate
By Plan Execute Profit2 years ago in Poets
Fear
Fear No, not the movie. But this is also about someone luny. Feel it? It’s there. Feel it. Looking into the mirror.
By Andrew Dominguez2 years ago in Poets
Rowan's Legacy: The Saga of the Wolfpack
In the heart of untamed woods, where legends breathe and sigh, There lived a wolf named Rowan, whose tale would reach the sky,
By Kailee phillips2 years ago in Poets
Whispers of the Haunted Night
In the hush of midnight, when the world's asleep, The spirits of Halloween their vigil keep. Moonlight bathes the land in a silvery sheen,
By Kailee phillips2 years ago in Poets
CoWarDice
I hate cowards. I hate to see cowardice absorb the mind and body of someone capable of accomplishment, far less excellence. What a waste, what a bitter disappointment; a receptacle for genius, a conduit for the ineffable excellence choosing to channel frailty instead.
By Tarik Murrell2 years ago in Poets
Love or Stockholm Syndrome
Was it love or Stockholm Syndrome You always kept me home I never realized it ‘til now How bad you were for me I thought I loved you
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
StOrm
I’m up and I’m scrambling. I’m up and trying to make sense of this. This ocean of dizziness. Nothing makes sense yet. Am I up? What am I up from? What am I up t-
By Tarik Murrell2 years ago in Poets