In realms where words weave tales unseen,
The poet's heart, a canvas keen.
With ink and rhyme, they craft the dance
Of stars that twirl in night's expanse.
Each verse a whisper, soft and clear,
Echoes of joy, of sorrow's tear.
In cadence sweet or fierce refrain,
They paint the hues of joy and pain.
They capture dreams in fleeting flight,
Give voice to hope in darkest night.
With pen in hand, they shape the view,
Reveal the world, both an old and new.
For in their verse, the soul is bared,
The essence of humanity shared.
About the Creator
Isra
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To the ones who bleed blue
So many individuals grasped the hold of a brush or ink when they felt the need to vent their emotions and dive deep into the world of their creation. The world is an unfair place and asking it to treat you fairly is like questioning the unfathomable. It is the nature of humans to kick someone when they are down. We often question the beauty and unique sense of individuality we hold because of the scars and imperfections that are embedded within us. But does any existing humanity in the world question the beauty of the moon though we all know it is adorned with its set of flaws that run deep in craters and valleys?
By Hridya Sharmaa day ago in Poets
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