Now you're gone I can no longer message you. Now you're gone I can no longer speak to you. Now you're gone I can no longer laugh with you.
By Denise Larkin2 years ago in Poets
Speak not to me of EMOTIONS That diaphanous duality of our soul's need for belonging...a sheer multi-faceted fountain of thoughts, needs, feelings, hate, desire and a need to be wanted, loved and cherished
By Novel Allen2 years ago in Poets
Hello You, Friend, Lover, Ex This one’s for You The silent reader Not a love note or romantic poem Just words to get off my chest
By Nick Queen2 years ago in Poets
In the serene suburbs of Willowbrook, where the streets meandered amidst canopies of ancient oak trees and the homes nestled harmoniously in their shade, a quaint antique shop named "Mystique Curiosities" stood as a beacon of intrigue. Its weathered brick façade, adorned with tendrils of ivy that seemed to whisper secrets of forgotten times, cast an enchanting spell on all who passed by.
By Dannie2 years ago in Poets
The weaver of sand, with silent, slow tread, He threads through the dunes, where secrets are bred. No map guides his steps, just an instinct so deep,
By mahmoud elsaad2 years ago in Poets
Humans named us DINOSAURS Herbivore, a nomenclature for our food preference🌿 In colossal majesty we roamed the Earth in prehistoric times
A mom casts her goals into the ocean; we, the words sent bobbing in the direction of the sun, the eggs of stone,
By Kamal O. Touhami2 years ago in Poets
Walking, Soaring Through cotton clouds Where the sun and the moon meet For their battle to rule Over the sky,
By Ava D. 2 years ago in Poets
Dim sunlight In the middle of the dark; Silhouettes of tall trees Open their arms in awe Of the splendid night sky,
The leathery lord of the sun-scorched plains, With eyes that hold wisdom in desert rains. He treads on the sand, a silent machine,
From Himalayan peaks, where snow meets sky, The Ganges whispers, a teardrop from on high. A newborn stream, a gurgling, playful song,
By Moharif Yulianto2 years ago in Poets
Billie Jo Likes to frolic really slow Through the garden Tiptoeing on toes of ten So that she doesn’t crush the flowers
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
