fact or fiction

Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about what makes a good poem and the poetry rules that were made to be broken.

Can Working Out Bring Comfort?
Sweat... Dripping down across my face. On the treadmill like it's a race. When I'm done, I'll hit the weights. To ease my stress and lift the weight.
By Dylan 3 years ago in Poets
I enjoy using my mini hookah bong! It is useful for tobacco or marijuana!
My mini hookah bong is the best thing that happened to me in regards to blowing trees, I hate that I put tobacco into it too, and smoke it. I would feel much better when I narrow it down to my marijuana, and quit the tobacco for good.
By Angelina F. Thomas3 years ago in Poets
Comfort?
My comfort is being uncomfortable, It can be found in the gym, It can be found in my writing, It can be found in my photographs.
By Jason Wagner3 years ago in Poets
I guess
September 25th, 2022 I guess I'll write poems, to help ease the pain I guess I'll cry over, again and again I'll write poems to heal, the brokest of hearts
By Ms. Rodwell3 years ago in Poets
Seeing from within
There once was a woman from Canada constantly searching for the anima that sometimes appeared, suggesting things weird
By Katherine D. Graham3 years ago in Poets
Placebo
Under placebo effects I feel love in my reasoning Ꚗ I am swept up in a vessel of passions Is this feeling true
By Marie Cadette Pierre-Louis3 years ago in Poets
Does beauty have reason?
Does beauty have reason? Behind it, there is story? I can't understand, why? attitude is of having beauty. *
By Manthan3 years ago in Poets
Restored Edit: Undo Typing
I am slathered in comfort waxed shaker board, clean Reclaimed, solid and handcrafted from 100-year-old wood salvaged, history maintained
By No Real Balance3 years ago in Poets
Incased in Fog
She waded through the thick pools, Legs lurching over toadstools, As the churning white kissed her feet, And the driven gray pelted like sleet.
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Poets
The Raven
A raven touched her palm, As she remained so deadly calm, Carrying a message to beseech, In the havoc of its screech,
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Poets
Broken Shadow
As the shadows kiss my skin, they call, Beckon as I lose it all. The light fades from fingertips, Hope from sight, slips,
By Laura Lann3 years ago in Poets
Birthday
I enjoy this time of year. Another year gone, something you cannot hear. But you can let those that know you that its da bomb.
By Alex Jennett3 years ago in Poets