love poems

Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.

Christmas Gathering
In the glow of twinkling lights, we gather, hearts joined together, a quilt of soft voices and laughter flowing through the rooms we once filled,
By Tim Carmichaelabout a month ago in Poets
The Text Drafts
My Notes app is a museum of almosts— rooms full of sentences that never learned how to leave. ﹁﹂ One starts with “hey,”
By Milan Milicabout a month ago in Poets
Villains: A Villanelle
We crafted masterpieces from hearts we slayed Loved like cruelty was a work of art Villains aren’t born; they’re made
By Tina D. Lopezabout a month ago in Poets
The Fire of You
*** An image flickers across my thoughts Of you in that fiery red dress A memory seared into my cerebral cortex The day you branded me with impossible dreams
By Simon Georgeabout a month ago in Poets
Human angels
They are like angels dressed in the nothingness of everyday life. Their brightness fills every chaos and deafness, entering the silence of the mind without saying anything. With a smile and a glance, they say more than anyone else after hours of conversation or lectures. They enter the soul and purify it. Their sound is the most delicate particle of existence that a human being can perceive. , and she carries information for the youngest to make their lives better and for the oldest to make their lives better. She believes and acts, she does not introduce doubt, she gives faith and strength, she does not squeeze, but teaches by herself and her work, giving herself completely but not forgetting about herself.
By Darkosabout a month ago in Poets
Loved by Two
When Two Silences Loved the Same Name She had a way of entering rooms without announcing herself. Not loud. Not shy either. Just… present—like sunlight finding a crack in the wall and deciding to stay.
By LUNA EDITHabout a month ago in Poets
Simple Math?
One plus one equals two is not always simple math. -- Relationships are harder— one person trusting their heart to a stranger
By ᔕᗩᗰ ᕼᗩᖇTYabout a month ago in Poets
It was not love, it was a disease
Maybe she recognized him, but pretended that she was no longer there, that all those memories and experiences had turned her into someone he would never know again. The last flame of love, lit a year ago, full of hope, continued to toss her life left and right, straight ahead, until suddenly it fell inexorably to the ground and said, “Enough, this will never happen again.” Your chosen one will never happen. It is a walking illusion of hatred towards yourself and others. The fire went out forever, the flames died down, and she never spoke to her again.
By Darkosabout a month ago in Poets
The undeniable smoke of the flame
Fearless, delicate thoughts try to rise to the surface, freedom slips outside, opening up new horizons for themselves They do not storm, they do not seek fire, but carefully prepare themselves to undergo the furnace
By Darkosabout a month ago in Poets
The Rustle of Rain
I am unmoored when we lock eyes. There has to be a word for this strange surmise. The first word that comes to my mind: Why are you so hard to find? Images sometimes flow through my head. Small polaroids lying with you in your bed. You looked upon me with vibrant, warm eyes. I knew right then you were the beginning of my very demise. Flickers of your smile rain on me when I feel down. Ever since I have found you, I have forgotten how to frown. To know of an arc angel that exists right before me. To know that the world is not as bad as I thought it to be. You implore me. A desire as dangerous as capture of the heart. Why not stop now before it even starts? Maybe I should stop loving you, maybe I should run. But your warm embrace reminds me of the sun. Underneath your sun, I feel its rays, and I feel like I am burning yet somehow safe. I never knew I could feel that, only in your space. That is the word that comes to mind. It turns out you were not that hard to find. A word that has now branded my mind:
By Gia Saintabout a month ago in Poets
68 Whiskey
sixty eight whiskey the crucial care of cold bones when winter's voice wars * A/N: "68 Whiskey" (pronounced Sixty-Eight Whiskey) refers to the U.S. Army's Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) for the Combat Medic (Healthcare Specialist), using the NATO phonetic alphabet for the numbers and 'W'. These medics provide crucial emergency medical care on the battlefield, acting as first responders for injured soldiers, managing trauma, and offering primary care, often holding EMT certifications.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a month ago in Poets
Emotions That Warm
layered emotion a candle in the window warms more than the heart
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a month ago in Poets