They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
I did not ask to be a seer, I do not want the curse of farsight, I sit on a tripod thousands of miles away From a rocky shore.
By Meredith Harmonabout a month ago in Poets
Driving Lengthen the road and burn the forest— every little sapling, tree, and shrub. Burn down the houses on the way,
By Avocado Nunzella BSc (Psych) -- M.A.P about a month ago in Poets
Beyond the drip of years, when comfort kills the fire, I hear your footstep wander off, pursuing fresh desire. *
By Alison McBainabout a month ago in Poets
The Version They Remember Isn’t Me They remember me before the damage, before loss rearranged my thinking, before I learned how quickly love can leave,
By Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
Four walls. Roof. Windows. That is what it 'takes to make a home'. Until movers come. Packed photos. Mementos boxed. Watch as they drive away.
By Nikki Torino Wagnerabout a month ago in Poets
High fidelity; crown on your head You wear it like a burnt marshmallow Lying between your teeth Sticky, charred and sweet.
By Vitaline Bretagneabout a month ago in Poets
My body opens floating over Chicago, like a day unsure of what the weather will bring. Old smoke signals echo through my bones,
By Mara Suttmann-Leaabout a month ago in Poets
Salamanders of the Ash They slither through the dying embers, red scales glinting in the smoke, whispers curl from their mouths like sparks,
It does not matter how high you rise... How great you become... How skilled you are... How far you've come... How phenomenal things have been...
By Dr. Cody Dakota Wooten, DFM, DHM, DAS (hc)about a month ago in Poets
I am drowning in the Pacific Ocean. With my body floating I am difficult back to above. Close my eyes. My heart is contemplating
By Mirda Gabout a month ago in Poets
“Our Torch Charlie Kirk” By Riccardo Marini – September 2025 He stood for God, for family, for love, A messenger of light, sent from above.
By Richardabout a month ago in Poets
In the oldest part of the city, where broken streetlights flickered like tired stars and silence felt heavier than noise, there lived a young poet named Ayaan. His world was small—one narrow room with peeling paint, a wooden table, and a window that looked down at a restless street. But inside that small room existed entire universes, created by ink, pain, and unspoken emotions.
By Anas Khanabout a month ago in Poets
