Poems About Anger by New Members

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.

Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of...

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.

Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of...

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.

Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of...

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.

Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of...

Your gaze wanders through corridors of dead and living poets, devouring, slipping in like thieves at midnight—not for communion with the spirit’s insight, but to feast, to draw stolen breath and reshape it as your own, a mimicry born without debt to the muse, a hollow construct grasping for self acclaim, void of responsibility to its sources.

Poetic Vampires, the charlatans of thought, these pale shadows drift through other minds, cloaked in filched passion and counterfeit phrases—a theater of echoes lacking the marrow of originality. They linger, barren of fresh vision, bereft of...