art

Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.

White Coat
White Coat That day, you placed your hand on my back, I knew. My pain left me, and I knew. I didn't want to admit it then, but that was the moment
By Maria Ayala7 years ago in Poets
"Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear"
Bumper to bumper in every lane, A shortcut - you say - around the inane. Past the fancy restaurants and the Strolls in the park, past parties, drinking
By J Kruger7 years ago in Poets
The Pendulum of Feminism
You want to say you have control over me? There must be something wrong inside your circuitry We didn’t get to write our own history
By Harley Harris7 years ago in Poets
Among the Wilted Weeds
These acorns know no place, nor do these crinkled leaves. For they Have been released, birthed away by the trees. The night, dark and dismal, extends far past its due.
By Katie Matthews7 years ago in Poets
Aflame
The memory of us sets me aflame. A burning moves throughout my veins, As I long for the day I can be free of these chains.
By Katie Matthews7 years ago in Poets
The Hint
You didn’t get the hint, Or maybe you did. That this is not what I want, For you are not him. Did you hear my pleas over your insatiable hunger?
By Katie Matthews7 years ago in Poets
At Word's Edge
What is the point of Language? If not to carry simple message? Swap words for numbers, instantly you'd see some structure.
By Benoit Magician Poet Word-caster7 years ago in Poets
The Power of Philosophy
Steel pours like sheets of some white-hot splendor. Copper mines run deep into the Earth to Extract the metal to only render
By Skyler Saunders7 years ago in Poets
Prism
Sweetie, you’re a volume of stories in a world only learning the alphabet Your shining soul wanders through people’s thoughts like a rainbow after a storm,
By Olivia Reed7 years ago in Poets
The Admirer
A painting tells a story. Behind each gentle stroke and soothing transition of colour is about 101,000 words. Underneath each coat of paint is a canvas.
By Bianca Loveless7 years ago in Poets
London Bridge—If You Forget About Me
Medieval methods of torture have since been illegalized, yet I find myself laid to rest in this crevice. The deepest parts of me that you use to commend me for keeping so hidden are now singed onto the most exposed layer of my skin.
By Bianca Loveless7 years ago in Poets
Someday
Someday I'll be an old senile dementia patient In a low budget nursing home Because I spent all my money on living and now have non left to die.
By James Beck7 years ago in Poets