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Budding Artists haiku
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By George’s Girl 2026 about 3 hours ago in Poets
Where Have These Years Gone?
Where Have These Years Gone? I closed my eyes, and there you were again, small hands smudged with colour, laughter in the air,
By George’s Girl 2026 about 3 hours ago in Poets
storm clouds
a storm is coming the sky is dark, the air thick and heavy and my bones my bones can feel it coming my grandmother used to say
By Alys Revnaabout 15 hours ago in Poets
you mistake me for the speaker of my poems. Top Story - April 2026.
—and you call me embarrassing. your words sting, dripping with venom, sending my body into panic. I cry, half anger / half devastation.
By katherine j zumpanoabout 18 hours ago in Poets
Touch the Clouds
cumulus clouds drift he said he wants to touch them I said, go ahead. Note: I encourage my kids to be one with nature. You will not run out of happiness.
By Seema Patelabout 18 hours ago in Poets
Oh Loved One
You’re more afraid of what I think Than some of what you believe Shape and mold your fleet But your hill only gets more steep
By Cooper Austinabout 21 hours ago in Poets
Happy Birthday, Again
My birthday Has become synonymous With loneliness When I have to order, Pay for, Cut my own cake Alone. When I have to shed tears
By Manisha Dhalania day ago in Poets
Life of Cards
you're a shit writer but you make a good muse because I've been full of fire and you just lit the fuse You think I’m inauthentic
By Raine Fieldera day ago in Poets
I Am Kaos’ Daughter
Unassuming, my instruments creep: measuring, circling, eerie. I do apologize for your discomfort. I stimulate guilt.
By Jessica McGlaughlina day ago in Poets
Just do what you Already did
Even though you may be loved unconditionally by family, it also can feel like you can’t win. How many times, especially growing up with your parents, have you been told to do something one specific way, and then when you do, you’re told it should’ve been done another way?
By Gabriel Shamesa day ago in Poets
Come Back Kid
A tour of humility and not defeat. A position of victory, all is His glory. Remade over head to toe, a vision of Cinderella at the ball;
By Jacqueline Elaine Hudsona day ago in Poets
The Last Light of Summer
The cicadas sang their final symphony as Maya stood on her grandmother's porch, watching the sun bleed orange across the Kentucky hills. September had arrived with its bittersweet promise—the end of freedom, the return to structure, the closing of another chapter in her rapidly disappearing childhood.
By The Curious Writer2 days ago in Poets