Most recently published stories in Poets.
I'm sick! From cruelty to innocent souls, From outrage and ego, which only ruins. I'm tired of watching them kill, And without paying to go!
By Arzun Nasufova8 years ago in Poets
I wonder how many nights took you to stop thinking about me I wonder how many nights the tears of your eyes stopped having the taste of our last hug
By Dew Drops8 years ago in Poets
The pain of my life is so unreal '' But yet nobody thinks it's a big deal '' While I weep at night '' Not a blink in sight ''
By Mags Murphy Lynch8 years ago in Poets
If I gave you a pencil and told you to break it would you? Say you took this pencil and snapped it in half. You would feel bad for breaking a perfectly good pencil.
By Charlie Miller8 years ago in Poets
A war of attrition has no end. The souls of men leisurely bend. Our dogma extinguished with us all. Only time commands us when to fall.
By Garrett Jair Lang8 years ago in Poets
I was born in this hell They gave me this shyt to sell Then trada put me in jail They want a niguh to fail. OH well I shall prevail
By Stephon Foxworth8 years ago in Poets
What is perfect? Perfect is having required, or desirable elements; qualities or characteristics. As people say, Ideal, flawless.
By Girl Anonymous8 years ago in Poets
Dear Friend, I have come to you for help because you are the last person that I can turn to. I know I have many other friends; however, I cannot talk to them for the following reasons:
Digging up potatoes is satisfying, When you put the fork into the ground and big spuds, baby spuds come up. In the fresh summer air (a little muggy perhaps) you admire your roses and fuchsias against a blue or overcast sky.
By Chloe Urquhart8 years ago in Poets
Free from the chains, which lay heavy on the heart, soul, and the mind, the truth in their lies spoken, gains a vision to the blind.
By Michael Douglas8 years ago in Poets
Nothing left to lose The spirit of the struggle defines us. We are holding on to what makes us who we are. Hold on to who you are,
By Ashley Bonneau8 years ago in Poets
This tin tacked spider’s web consumes my pin cushion heart. I spiral in this sepia stained world, screaming with sounds. We skip and skid towards the ever looming cult.
