Trying to collect money Is like trying to catch sand The more you have The less it fits in your hand There will never be enough time to collect it all
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Everybody grows up. Aging is inevitable, an unchangeable thing. There are different things that adulthood brings: bills, responsibility, work... children perhaps.
By Latoya Giles about a year ago in Poets
In the rhythm of the earth, We find our joy, our pain, our mirth. From birth to death, the cycle spins, Each ending marks where life begins.
By Dabasish Palabout a year ago in Poets
She who whispers into the wind, a new song dripped in gold laying in a field of roses, delights in the splendor of new flavor.
By Jennifer Davidabout a year ago in Poets
Fortitude is the feast in famine, oil on water where ridicule is syringed between. Suffocate in the sacrilegious just to feel sane. Sin is only a drapery the cleanly use to delineate themselves from reality, and in turn, struggle.
By Obsidian Wordsabout a year ago in Poets
I feel no air rushing through my rotten lungs Nor blood through my collapsed veins I am but a corpse wandering through this life.
By Faye Lockabout a year ago in Poets
Silence! Silence! Silence! I'm so addicted to silence. But why can't I silence this annoying conversation inside my head, Which make me so damn frustrated.
By SD Siloneabout a year ago in Poets
The hours pass tick tock tick tock reminding me -no- taunting me, that time is fleeting, fickle,
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets
The breeze blows the smell of carrion. Fields of stinking corpses All rotting in a pile. Jagged horns, crooked antlers.
By Zo Grimmwoodabout a year ago in Poets
There is no more you, There is no more us Now, there is only me and myself, Reflecting as night falls ~ From the window of my room,
By Radiant Rootsabout a year ago in Poets
Who then whittles away at my casket? That with each affair my life’s surrender, intricate impressions render. Who then constructs the art of my fate?
By Hyde Wunderli about a year ago in Poets
The September air whispers of all things golden and me. She whispers of the color of my crown - the one passed down
