Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
Down the lonely road at night With no stars in the curtain black, The weary man stumbles along Fear breathing down his back.
By Jacob Johnson8 years ago in Poets
AS I AM TWO SOULS WANDERING THROUGH THIS LIFE CHANCE MEETING SMILES TURN TO LIGHT LOOK IN MY EYES CAN YOU SEE US DRENCHED IN THE THRILL OF IT ALL
By David Avner8 years ago in Poets
A true artist, to me, is exposed to an abyss, A savage and unrelenting catharsis, And in this intensely dangerous and beautiful land,
By Pete Maguire8 years ago in Poets
The first time I saw Venus The Townley Venus at the British Museum I was overthrown Her stomach, gentle curvature Arms risen in strength and fullness
By Annie Rew Shaw8 years ago in Poets
Being fifteen, I'm only ten years conscious ten years of deciding for myself, I've made mistakes, some that I wish to wipe off the surface of my mind with a tidal wave,just so that I can make sure to get in every crevice
By Annabelle Pidek8 years ago in Poets
They came They crawled Open chests beat hard Like clouds they Could never be caught Tied the rope taught Fired the gun
By Elle C.8 years ago in Poets
Stop it, read it, clock it, Done deal with a rat's spiel, that's a new reel on your locket. Your locket, my lock-it. Done lost the key,
By Klyde Khalil Walker8 years ago in Poets
It's time we paid the price It's time we faced our vice Confront our evils Ensure our peoples It's time we play it nice
By Semira Birke8 years ago in Poets
Act One Everyone is speaking out loud while I daydream in solitude, thinking about my words carefully before I said them to you.
By cheyenne 8 years ago in Poets
I watch you dance in my eyes, flickering but never extinguished. I see how you glow and I wait. I wonder. I hear the crackle and I feel at home. Candlelight, you know me. And I know you.
By Emily Valdez8 years ago in Poets
There are faces in my head. Ones I don't remember yet. People quite often turn up dead. There are memories in my head. Ones I'd like to forget. People aren't what they seem, quite often turn out mean.
By Baby Pat8 years ago in Poets
Reflections bathed in the glory of night Untouched...unaltered purity in the rarest form Face singing the hymn of a life well lived
By Ashlei Nichole8 years ago in Poets
