Poetry Doesn't Have To Be Full Of Metaphors, Or Comparisons To Flowers, And Diamonds, And One Of Kind

poetry doesn't have to be full of metaphors, or comparisons to flowers, and diamonds, and one of kind things, it could be anything, something as simple as declaration in pure words, is equally beautiful, with no mazes, no puzzles, sure, imagination puts minds at work, but there is something raw and beautiful about simplification, and honesty.

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

More Posts from Pulchra-potens and Others

pulchra-potens

1 year ago

i guess I understand

why they all leave.

i am hard to love

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pulchra-potens

11 months ago

the pain wasn't worth it .

messed up.again .

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me my thoughts poetry literature myself write spilled thoughts spilled poetry tumlbr spilled writerme hilife

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pulchra-potens

3 months ago

My red flag is isolating myself when life gets dark and messy. I'd stay silent, pull away, push those I love away and hide. But, it's also when I crave being found the most, where I long for a heartfelt conversation and pay attention to every gesture of kindness.

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pulchra-potens

4 months ago

chat is this real

What you mean bro?

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pulchra-potens

10 months ago

I have been wondering,

if its my fault that she is becoming a monster.

and if it is me, i might be doing a good job.

and it scares me.

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pulchra-potens

4 months ago

merry christmas to you my friend

Merry Christmas buddy!

And happy new year!!

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merry christmas

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pulchra-potens

10 months ago

how my life should be.

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cats i wanna be a cat dojusticetomylife

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pulchra-potens

9 months ago

Identity

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

How do I relieve myself of these emotions, If not by bleeding myself on paper? How do I express myself to the world, If not by baring myself for everyone to see? What is my comfort, if not being vulnerable with words? Where do I go, if not to pen and paper? To whom do I share my happiness, sadness, My sorrows, and guilt? Where do I let out my anger, Before it turns me cold and sharp? Where do I pour out the storm, Before it drowns me? Tell me, what do I do, If not write?

Who am I, if not a poet? What am I, if not a writer? What is my existence, And what is my purpose?

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pulchra-potens

1 month ago