Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Art is in the poet not the word
we sing the song
and write the lyrics
to a tune which must be heard
It helps me color inside the lines.
   I paint soft green landscapes instead
   of red hot flames in catholic hell.
   My glass is full of Christ's blood
   that I drink to dream in poet sleep.
   I'll pay my tab in tomorrow's light.
The old poet poses with his worn out lines.
    He's near 80 and written everything that matters.
    Loves, lost loves, betrayals, redemption, children
    recovered from his own disasters. Lines repeated
    they're frayed of their own weight, Autumn's dust.
    Stay with me and view me in Winters graveyard.
    I'm an old poet with a young man's heart pleading
    for an honest appraisal of my balance sheet.
something empty
in my life
feels less empty
when i write
You could give her the world
but she wouldn't be happy,
you could make all the money
but she'd still starve for more,
you could work all the hours
but she'd still miss your touch,
but if you give her your heart,
she'll have more than enough
We come from different regions.
He is from a land stretching from a mystic desert
through rivered green hills
atop eon-deposited bands of coal
ending on the shores of a mighty ocean.

I from swamps and warm southern coastal climes
from a father who saw with urban eastern eyes
both parents merging into deep flowing rivers
full of lifegiving nutrients and radiant spirits
but I too ending on that same mighty sea.

We steer our separate vessels
our hands firmly on our singular tills
but each with the same cosmic navigator
merging our journeys into a brilliant universe
full of multi-colored nebulas and planets,
but our star sheds upon we two pilgrims
a potent lively light.
She was queen bee for a reason
She was respected and revered
At least that’s what they told her
Behind a voice of fear
She was quick to chop a head clean off
Without blinking an eye
So your whole life sometimes
Depended on your ability to lie
Purple shades of sky
blinding eyes of starlike sunrise
Over mountain highs
and valley lows you shine.
Giving hope to every corner of the day.



Shell ✨🐚
the real poem is not in the words
but in the thought...
the well of feelings
in which it was created
the true painting
is not on the canvas
but in the vision...
the caverns of the conscious mind
the beauty of love
is not just a kiss, a smile, a touch...
but rather the moment
of it's inception

the poet, the artist
the creator unknown
all conspiring to bring
Life
to our thoughts
Next page