Sometimes you have to move on To find what you’re looking for Was it in the cabinet? No. The drawer? Oh well I’ll find another one
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
A porcelain cup, a steaming brew, A solitary soul, lost in the night's hue. The city sleeps, a silent hush descends, While thoughts and worries intertwine and blend.
By Moharif Yuliantoabout a year ago in Poets
In the hands of tomorrow To bemoan the existence of what could be, The atrocity of what ifs set its fangs deeper into the present space of serenity.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
He wakes up each day with the weight of the world, Carrying burdens no one else sees. Behind his smile, a storm quietly swirls,
By RKabout a year ago in Poets
Which is the real me The one they see Or the one I see when you’re looking at me Distorted images in my mind Having never known what I look like to the world
The house is still. The once vibrant walls now hold the whispers of memories that linger in every corner, every creak of the floor, and every echo of a lost voice. I walk through the empty rooms, my footsteps soft, as if I might disturb the silence that now envelops this place.
Sitting here In silent isolation. Waiting. Longing for your return Expecting a call from you everyday Never more shall I hear your beautiful voice
Symphonies Sing Inside an intrepid mind Limericks and lyrics smothered by laundry and lunches Endless teetering tasks fill pages instead of poems
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Poets
The precipice of poetry that seeks redemption Callous whispers that uproar the fear in my mind, Bounty tales of my existence may cease to be left behind.
Simply speaking shackled are the voices of those who dream of freedom If there were an iota of blame to place it would be in insolence inciting
By Dan-O Vizziniabout a year ago in Poets
I check my phone, again and again, Wondering when you'll send a message, a sign, Maybe, just Maybe, you're thinking of me too.
In the quest for the ebb and flow, In the hammered wheels of agility and the art of being slow. The due course of nature strides in its crafty demeanour,
