Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The Last Fire I watched the fire tremble at the edge of night, its red tongue licking the air, then shrinking back, a shadow of warmth folding into the cold,
By Marie381Uk about a month ago in Poets
In the quiet hush before the crowd stirs, where anticipation lingers like a soft fog, poets gather, hearts trembling, palms pressed, their voices dormant volcanoes ready to erupt.
By Muhammad Saad about a month ago in Poets
We are not horses! We are humans! And humans are a dynasty that blossoms the dreamer of dreams. * We are not heroes! We are humans!
By Chloe Gilholyabout a month ago in Poets
i wish you'd use me as a match, strike me against all the rough surfaces, sandpaper, the sidewalk, your own edges. you used to call me blaze,
By Daniel Kabout a month ago in Poets
For a moment I thought I saw myself In her dark glance, I saw myself— But it was words alone that fell. I thought I could hear me cry
By Caitlin Charltonabout a month ago in Poets
Every flame begins with a rupture. Every rose blooms from a fracture. This is not a ritual of control, but a ceremony of creation.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a month ago in Poets
I am covered in Scar Tissue on the inside it surrounds my heart like the paper you put in Christmas Bags to protect presents
By David Thomasabout a month ago in Poets
Our creative Genesis baptized us in soothing waters of beginnings Our Exodus now burns hot in the departing rage of flame's goodbye
By Novel Allenabout a month ago in Poets
I am Flame, rising majestic. Antediluvian. Formed before the deluge of flooded words engulfed the megafauna of the social landscape
By Antoni De'Leonabout a month ago in Poets
Light is Light spills across my mind like a calm arrival, lifting the doubts that gather in the corners, and I welcome it as if it were a promise,
Digging a Hole I dig a hole in the quiet earth, feeling the weight of every lifted handful, and the soil tells stories older than mine,
Bring My Hunting Coat, Mary Bring my hunting coat, Mary, the wind is turning, and I feel the cold rising across the fields,
