There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Even before my birth, it began. “It’s a boy!” they declared, hues of blue on hand. Upon my grand entrance, their mistake now clear.
By Sissi Smith4 years ago in Poets
Through the window streams golden sunlight, Lighting her hair like an angel’s halo. Goosebumps follow my fingers along her warm skin,
By Nadia Cowperthwaite4 years ago in Poets
We pay for existence With the watches on our wrists We live to exist We exist to live And now more than ever the latter
By Jeffrey Sparks4 years ago in Poets
The Right Kind of Gay™ celebrates pride But only in the month of June Then they put their rainbows away The Wrong Kind of Gay™ wears rainbows all year round
By Melissa in the Blue4 years ago in Poets
What’s misunderstood should be explained. But how can I make them see, the jokes don’t work anymore. I’m not what they think I am,
By Nicholas Grogan4 years ago in Poets
The morning after, I trace my finger along the edges of the makeup smudges on my pillow. Trails of mascara goop, lipstick stains,
By Athena Reyes4 years ago in Poets
You can't be a constellation on your own. It takes teamwork to hold up the sky, — and society is built on us all setting aside our need to be the whole damn sun
By Alice Bethan Thomas4 years ago in Poets
I’ve always walked between. Carrying tales between worlds, ears pinned back at thought of being caged. ~ In September, we sat cross-legged
By Isabelle Anand-McEwen4 years ago in Poets
think back to the month of March remember smiles in the air? resounding cheer, glee overarch praising women everywhere sweet soiree
By Grace Downey4 years ago in Poets
I look up and I am an ant. Every action I take, every word I speak in graciousness, maliciousness, or indifference
By Alyson Pelletier 4 years ago in Poets
in the lengthy shadows that are cast by a malignant reality fractured i anticipate an evening’s repast and succumb to inimical raptures
By Bren4 years ago in Poets
Can I hide myself in a room? Away from eyes and stone-hearts. I’d shelter in my mother’s womb, Now I’m exposed to bullets, my soul departs.
By Buse Umur4 years ago in Poets
