inspirational

Inspirational poetry is just the thing to lift your spirits or rejuvenate your creativity.

My Foraging Love
In my life philosophy, foraging is a sacred word. When I lived in native land India it was an alien concept.
By Seema Patelabout a month ago in Poets
All That Remains
some days, i am my inner child learning that warmth is not safe, that there is no escape from a home always on fire.
By Kaitlyn Amyabout a month ago in Poets
Sunlight Fading
Sunlight Fading I sit alone in the room where sunlight fades, shadows draping themselves across the floor, I hold your memory like a fragile flame,
By Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
The Stable
Little donkey in the stable Do you hear the angels singing to the shepherds, who are hearing of the love that He is bringing
By Colleen Waltersabout a month ago in Poets
Where Forever Begins
I start with the way she looks at me, steady, unguarded, like she already knows the truth I’m still learning to speak. There’s a kind of hush in that moment,
By Printique Studios2 months ago in Poets
Digging a Hole
Digging a Hole I dig a hole in the quiet earth, feeling the weight of every lifted handful, and the soil tells stories older than mine,
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Poets
Upside-down Mouse
“The Broken Finger Story is not just about pain it is the comic checkpoint that softened the gloom. What started as a rupture turned into sovereign wit, reframing doom into laughter. I have now recorded it in my personal archive as a ceremony, a reminder that even pauses can ignite new passion.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Poets
Home Inside Myself
After everyone left, The quiet didn’t feel peaceful at first. It felt like standing in an emptied apartment listening for footsteps that would never climb the stairs.
By Milan Milic2 months ago in Poets
Art Therapy
Art is a therapy, free and without side effects. Not many people understand it, but I sure do. I have been immersing in it
By Seema Patel2 months ago in Poets
Obsidian Heartbeat
There’s a dark part of me people like to call “too much”— the watchful one, the one who double-locks the door and counts the exits in a room.
By Milan Milic2 months ago in Poets
The Poet’s Pen Went Cold
The Poet’s Pen Went Cold The poet’s pen went cold as ice he stared at words that would not play nice His mind went blank, his tea went stale
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Poets
Why?
Why? Why does the world turn when I feel still, caught between questions I cannot answer, and why does the heart search for meaning,
By Marie381Uk 2 months ago in Poets