Learn more about other poetry terms

Love Yourself, Speak Yourself These are the messages carried through their speeches In large rooms full of their critics Under the hawk eyes of netizens Waiting, watching Bated breath
Though many have withered And none have become a winner We must rest with our kindered For what is success without becoming happier It is this strife that fuels a person That fuels a writer, and a poet
Is it the way she stares at you while you comb your hair, Or the way she rushes you out of bed? The way she can make you regret every decision you've made, Even prove to you that you still care.
Am I artistic?Do I fit the description?Am I sufficient?Do you fux with it?This style I'm developingDo I have talent?Why am I asking?Rhetorical questioningThe third time around
I am a survivor, I have been bullied, Calling myself a victim wouldn’t fit, Because the person who hurt me got hurt more in the end.   I am an artist,
Running, running, a field of dewy surprises tucked away under highighter green grass frozen faucets offer no use when
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, Ankle biting and cold air, nothing to stop me, but so many things to keep me away.   How does one make words into sentences again? The world has forgotten,
The artist’s heart Is a place of worry;
Wet the paintbrush and mix the paint, apply colour.    Colours blending,  Ceasing to become anything other than  Pure pigment. I am an artist.   "Your line quality is lacking,"
young talented artist you drew with a kind of passion a kind of originality & beauty that no one ever had   you took me in to your world without even speaking just drawing
I hear sections of beautiful words inside my head.I even feel the parts that lurk in my heart,But it takes time for me to find the right ones and patch them togetherTo make them presentable and even then,
I want to talk about crayons solid, opaque sticks of wax the kind your parents tell you not to use as a snack when you're four, and the colors looks so good you need to try them to be sure and then you spit it out, feel the flecks of color stick t
I am a humble man,  No hero, king or saint.  My purpose is my brush,  My canvas and my paint.    My Dear, I have this gift -  I paint all that I see, And everything I paint
Dual: I am not one,  but I am two.   What does that mean? and who are you? My name is Amber, a pure chroma color, halfway between yellow and orange, and red
Subscribe to artistic