Poetry
Yufa and
Poetry
They call this knot of stars a Weaving Girl
whose golden needle tears the dark apart.
whose golden needle tears the dark apart.
R. Nemo Hill • Eleventh Reverie of Magellan by R. Nemo Hill
She has a soul full of beautiful dreams, and I have strong hands that can make anything real. She shines like the morning sun and plays like the spring breeze, and I have my feet solidly in the dirt. She has endless lifetimes of torment and transcendence in her eyes, and I have endless healing in my touch. What are we? I have no idea. How are we?... See more
Jesse Crossen • Analog Love
Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean-- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down -- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her
... See more
HYMN by Edgar Allan Poe
The Invitation
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are... See more
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are... See more
Esther Ekhart • The Invitation, a poem by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
beautiful poem
The biggest argument I’ve seen is that AI art steals from artists. You know who else steals from artists? People.
nametwitter.com
A poem by Michelangelo.
As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.
373 / “This World is not Conclusion,” Emily Dickinson.