Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Please don’t paint me with that brush, The colours are all wrong, Instead of a great symphony, You’ve made me just a song.
By Jessie Waddell5 years ago in Poets
The purple rain it's pouring, washing, enchanting... cleansing thoughts into welcome transgression. This vision is perfection... completed with grace in all directions..
By Amy J Adams5 years ago in Poets
It always began with my hands. That's when I knew the synesthetic connections with a new person were about to be made and I was excited.
By Scottie Grimes5 years ago in Poets
With incredulous expressions they offer their first impressions, "Truthfully your skin is too pale, from your small mouth the language fails."
By R. A. Levy5 years ago in Poets
I’m writhing and crawling out of my sea of emotion. Cradled in agony and regrets I plead to forget. Profound darkness beneath the cloudy waters hides my countenance.
By Hunny Wav5 years ago in Poets
Sky Buckeye black The morning is cold. In the stadium dorm room. Sounds. Over night tailgate. Music from outside. One practice run.
By James DePaul5 years ago in Poets
Deep, golden brown reminiscent of rich soil, much like that of the ground that the ancestors toiled. Mounds as majestic as the mountainous regions
By Syncere5 years ago in Poets
In Act 1, love made me a jester in the halls of your court. There, at your feet, watching you laugh my heart and soul to pieces; your very own fool.
By Dame Vee5 years ago in Poets
The red tinged golden haze of the morning softly raised its head & the rays of the yellow sun catapulted the darkness behind the horizon that Sunday morn.
By ROSLYN WILLIAMS5 years ago in Poets
She walks down the halls all dressed in jewels. She glides past the walls, while laughing at you fools. Oh my god, have you met her?
By Jane Ferry5 years ago in Poets
There is an extraordinary color inside of us; Healing and helping, an absolute must. Every single one of us carries tethers and ties:
By Hackyandbird 5 years ago in Poets
A blind man sits in a room full of people. He knows not colour nor its name. Only the roaring compression of sound. But to say his life is lacking in hue would all but be a lie.
By Hazel5 years ago in Poets
