excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
Entry For The Vocal Awards 🏆
I'm Sure You Heard The Gossip 👀💬, Have You Joined The Challenge? 2 Days Away From The Closing Of the Vocal Awards 🏆 😉♥️I Am Searching through My Catalog 👌🎉 I Asked The Universe For Help 🆘 It Doesn't have to be a Poem just help me select another Winning 🏅 Piece📝💙🎉👌PICK ONE-👇
By HandsomelouiiThePoet (Lonzo ward)2 years ago in Poets
cure for better days
I don’t know how to write about the beautiful parts of life. I hone in on my pain and my despair and I forget that there is beauty in everything. I sit outside to remember. It’s a sunny day. It is such a sunny day and the breeze provides the most wonderful cooling. I can hear crickets chirping over my music while I watch the bees pick their favorite blades of grass. Tree branches above me swaying lightly but constantly. A breath of fresh air, hold for four, and an exhale through my mouth. Repeat. In the light of the day there is so much. So much to watch and so much to miss if you do not pay attention. I watch the golfers in their carts and I watch them play and I hear them cheer. Hip hop in the summer. A week until fall, on the dot. The leaves around me will change color, as some have already started. From vibrant greens to luscious oranges and even prettier reds. Yellow will fall from the sky onto the ground and brown bark will be all anyone will see. And it is still beautiful. When the snow, still far in the future, falls, magical and peaceful, making the days quieter, there will be beautiful white coats on each tree. Naked branches beneath. I can see the yellow flowers on the big tree by the parking deck. They are here but they will go, and they’ll return. There is so much to miss if you do not pay attention. The sun can cure and it truly, always, does. There is no better medicine for sadness than the glories of this life.
By daphne gray2 years ago in Poets
unheard melodies
I get butterflies just from staring at you. I wake up excited to make coffee because you say mine is "really good" and tell me how much you like it, why wouldn’t I? And I make waffles, because it’s Sunday and you love Sunday waffles. Yesterday you made me dinner, cooked me lasagna. For no reason, too, I was so confused. You say I’m your favorite woman and you play me, with your guitar, melodies unheard. Sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating, my exhale cracking the crystal; I stay still because I get petrified my dream will shatter. When I rub my eyes, I feel you drawing shapes on my back. You asked me once if you could wash my hair, I think I blacked out then. No one really expected it from us, on paper it doesn’t seem like it'd compute, but here we are. You came home early from work and class, and a party on multiple occasions. When you say you’d rather be with me I blush so hard I can feel the blood rush beneath my skin. When I have your hair in my fingertips, twirling and twiddling and tickling all around, I feel at ease. When you fall asleep on my chest, with your warm breath spanning my chest, I can sleep again.
By daphne gray2 years ago in Poets
I am Friends with Death.
Similar to Emily Dickinson, I have become a good friend with death. I find them to be lovely company and generally a kind soul. Some days death has a temper, and comes down with an iron fist. But other days they are a sooth presence; a peaceful spectator.
By Lane Burns2 years ago in Poets
