There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
My name is Eugena With an E like eccentric or e) All of the above I am red like Nina Simone’s pretty little pillow box
By Eugena Maguire5 years ago in Poets
In the dream world a world printed on the pages of My Journal a brilliant black Hand Sparkles held out to me and when I grab it in Comes
By Kayla Thompson5 years ago in Poets
i look at her and i see pink. a cartoon heart eyes, world melts away all i can see is her kind of pink. but when i see him i am
By Andrew Spencer, Sterling Howe5 years ago in Poets
FIELDNOTES (V) 1) I wanted to locate my roots in someplace sexy / when I took the DNA test at 24 / I wanted scientific evidence / that “exotic” could designate anything / except for a fetish
By Anuradha Bhowmik5 years ago in Poets
She stares staunchly left, Her Maj, never right - as if to turn might break her russet-faced watch over Envelopeland and the whole five-line empire would crumble.
By Emre Grub5 years ago in Poets
Whose reflected sensations on the eyes Will color my face, a blush. With flushed and heavy sighs Smothered visions then forced to hush.
By Gyllie Blake5 years ago in Poets
Peering into the Void Horror and Freedom manifold Opening; with light refracting Looking, finding, assuming Heating piss in the hunt for gold
By Nicolai Custodio5 years ago in Poets
Unity creates color. Color constructs. It magnifies and gives life. A speculation of every breathing being. It's a visible vibrance magnified in the flow,
By AnnMarie 5 years ago in Poets
Now when I look in the mirror I finally see a body Still wretched But no longer a nest of pious rape I see the mass and it’s gravity
By Alex Rafaelov 5 years ago in Poets
I think I’m beige “I’m not quite white (mom: Caucasian), but I’m not quite yellow (dad: Japanese), so I consider myself beige”
By Lillian Shoji5 years ago in Poets
We divide one another by the color of our skin, gender, race, and religion. Has anyone stopped to look closer to the color that runs deep through our veins.
By Shawnece5 years ago in Poets
Color is a lie. It’s in the eye of the beholder. It moves, melds and bleeds together, In a swirling agitation we’re all part of.
By Christopher Ott5 years ago in Poets
