art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Dead
In the dark, I hear a knocking sound from my door, as I open it there's no one around. I go back to bed, only for a drip to land on my head. Impossible it seems, because not a soul is in the apartment above nor pipes to leak. Again, with the knocking, almost as someone is mocking, only this time from the peep hole I see a flash of red. As I reach for the handle, a voice from behind says, “open and you're dead.” It comes as a fright, because I'm alone tonight. The knocks got louder, heart beating faster, and the voice is getting closer. From nowhere, a hand touches my shoulder, at this moment I'm in shock. Lost and confused, all I can do is run to the back door till I hear something that rattled me to the core. Give up the voice says, as I turn around to my surprise, the neighbors are alive. Impossible because I buried their heads under my bed, all but the wife. With one hand, she holds a knife, the other her head, as I open the door, I'm greeted by cops and a shot in the head.
By ElRey Niffen8 years ago in Poets
I Won't Forget
We are numb to the physical form. We tend to forget sometimes or come from a dark place in time. There's only so much I can tolerate until I deflect that with my spiritual shield, it's linear sometimes. The cowardice of using guns is like an oozing slime. You can certainly feel its touch. But we must undoubtedly decline.
By Samuel Noble8 years ago in Poets
What's Next?
As sit back and write, I wonder where will my time on Earth take me? Hopefully, as my plan comes together. Write scripts hoping to land something worthwhile. Jumping through obstacles, and energy vamps. Should I just give up? Or not; should I just smoke some weed? Or hit a line. Trying to pass the time. Audition after audition still haven't made it, no bookings yet, no signed deals, no contracts. But wait, there is light. No that's just another unpaid gig that you must still give your all to, another struggling artist effects. All I have left is the music and the fashion, nothing feels the same nor gives hopefulness as it once did, not even sex.
By Victor Best Jr8 years ago in Poets
