excerpts
Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.
Lost in Vocalization
Warning! If you are close to the one you love this poem may excite you to nymphomania. If you are taking any drugs that alter the senses, it is advised to wait three days as this poem is so hot it may cause severe hallucinations. And if you have a heart condition well you gone die anyway so look at this as dying on top of your fine ass woman during—well you figure it out!
By I AM. Master of Arts7 years ago in Poets
The Warrior Family
As i walk through the final resting ground of those before me I hear them whisper... I feel their hands on my back... Pushing me to go further train harder and break the barriers of what I thought was my limits...They are brothers, fathers, sons... Sisters, mothers, and daughters...those who gave some, and the ones who gave all...we pursue through long hours and even longer days, weeks, and months, we see their faces in our training and hear their inspiring quotes... we didn't choose this life for the fame, or the glory, sure as hell wasn't the money... we did this like so many before us in the pursuit... pursuing stretching beyond limits, pursuing defying death, pursuing family, pursuing the dream... even as in life and in death we protect each other and those who will never even know our names... we are faceless heroes, warriors of the night, a hand in the smoke, a purple glove pulling you free, a voice on the radio. We face what others fear and look death in the eyes and tell the reaper to fuck off... we are
By Gabriel Giffin8 years ago in Poets
The Wall
I had so many dreams, but also so many fears. To tame those fears, those anxieties I had a man help me become the person I always wanted to be. He was my coach, the controller of my faith. His name is unimportant, but I liked to call him The Wall. When I was young, all I wanted to do was kiss the sky. I developed a love for airplanes, all I wanted to do was test my limits and be a fighter pilot in the air force. But then, The Wall told me, with his potent persuasion filling my head with worries and doubts. “What if it doesn’t work out? Pilots don’t make a lot of money, how will you support your future family?” What if you are not good enough, not smart enough? So I molded up a new Idea, I will become a footballer, all I ever wanted to do was hold the Champions cup in my palms. And hear the crowd scream when I score the final goal. I motivated myself into caressing the ball every day until the ball became an extension of myself. I became obsessed, all I wanted to do was play until the sun became gray. Even in the darkest hours, passion can light the alleyways with hope and hunger. But, once again, The Wall found me. He told me, “It is hard to be a footballer, not worth all the training. You will have 10 years tops to play, not nearly enough money to live.” “You don’t want to miss college parties It is too much fun! All the drugs, and all the teenage nostalgia. You will be homeless and living on the streets without a college degree.” So I crafted up a new Idea, I will be a business executive. I don’t want to become one of those over-wealthy sophisticated money-grabbers, but I have the rest of high school and college to have fun until I have to become one of them. So I decided to go with that plan, and The Wall agreed.
By Nick Short8 years ago in Poets
An Excerpt From My Book, 'Love, Life, and Darkness'
“Blood, Tears, Words” The gentle scratching of a quill on paper echoes through the dimly lit halls. Never ceasing, I find innovative the page. The words become stronger, a true extension of myself. The hope, the loss, the love felt through the years made manifest in the stories I tell. I don’t realize it, but I’m gripping the quill quite hard. So much so, I can feel my fingertips start to bleed. It runs down the point just as I reach for the inkwell, a drop of blood falls in. I fail to realize this and continue writing. The red and black in the inkwell form a spiral, running infinitely deeper. The blood ink makes contact with the page. The words become stronger, a true extension of myself. The hope, the loss, the love felt through the years made manifest in the stories I tell. I don’t realize it, but I’m gripping the quill quite hard. So much so, I can feel my fingertips start to bleed. It runs down the point just as I reach for the inkwell, a drop of blood falls in. I fail to realize this and continue writing. The red and black in the inkwell form a spiral, running infinitely deeper. The blood ink makes contact with the paper, and my words begin to shape the world around me. Every beautiful moment made real, every dark one made horrible. All extremes, all emotions, all the words of a man gone mad. I write faster and faster, harder and harder. The quill becomes weak, brittle. It’s almost frantic now as more and more of my blood is etched upon the page. Finally, the quill snaps at the tip. Everything stops, everything is calm. The wind dies, the candle becomes still, and I look up for the first time in…. forever. I look at my hand, still bleeding at the tips. I stare at my fingertips, still bleeding. A few more drops fall into the ink, and form a heart. I stand up and walk away from my desk. The small house fades to a broken-down image of itself, the candle dies out completely, and I fade away into the night. Only to return, and write.
By Tristan Polly8 years ago in Poets
What Sets Your Heart on Fire?
A heart can be set ablaze by many things: love, hatred, and sorrow only being a few to name. Though my own isn't quite fond of the second listed, there are times where I find that love, sorrow and hate can almost be the same. Countless nights I've spent pouring out kerosene in the form of words, attempting to lessen the pain, because paper seems to be the only thing that'll listen; then again, how could it protest? When a soul is aflame, is anyone safe from the havoc it could wreak?
By Olivia Hall8 years ago in Poets
