Learn more about other poetry terms
Click, running from the light Behind the paintings, and up the wall Like Peter Pan’s shadow Making my skin crawl.
the smell of lemon and honeysuckle is overbearing in this home built from dark woods and fresh fire, soft light. a cat skitters along the dark
The teacher says write, So I write. But I don't really want to. I want to play in the street In the night While the roar of the city Drowns out the cries of the lost and the weary.