Modern Poetry

A bee sits on a flower.

The flower is red,

and the bee is yellow.

Sleeping in his comfy bed.

A five year old could’ve written that.

Yeah, isn’t that the beauty?

Recent Posts

I laugh, yet I bleed these shades of crimson blindness. Where is my reward?

Will this away: the heedless noise, the shifting of the silver tides. Embrace the mountains far aloft with clouds encircled, fair and...

Is it we who look up to the stars? Or do they gaze up toward us?