There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
I was undecided, I've seen all the colors, but your reds coming through, it trickles down to blue. I guess I crave that too,
By Nina Maria 5 years ago in Poets
The green paper turned brown and then black above the flame Somebody whispered my nickname And then laughed Tidings of betrayal came and then trickled in burnt red ears
By Crispin Case-Leng5 years ago in Poets
Some people think in black and white I think in shades from red to blue. I’m autistic that makes me different, it’s true
By Life Management members' collaboration 5 years ago in Poets
HOW TO EAT A COLOR you can bake it boil it broil it roast it toast it or even eat it raw but i wouldn’t suggest that
By Matt Starr5 years ago in Poets
My heart shines when I see a rainbow Every shade in a different place I fall in love with every color of skin On every type of face
By Dex Franco5 years ago in Poets
When others think of colors, there's different things they see, I can only tell you, what colors mean to me. Why did they abandon him, is it because he's Bay?
By Jennifer Malloch5 years ago in Poets
To live in a world where all colors are appreciated and accepted would be the ultimate utopia. Until we fight to be heard and seen. After all when you mix every color you get black...
By Kadesha Barnard5 years ago in Poets
The stars remind us we can only see so far, what is left behind us is left in the dark. I had to realize what I see everyday
By city raquelle5 years ago in Poets
I look around for something that is profound. But I only see a world that has been bound. People's faces,People's spaces
By Claire Saldivar5 years ago in Poets
Not unlike the aisles in the grocery stores, Humans are a conglomeration of different packaging. Varying contents within.
By tristinrose5 years ago in Poets
Bruises blossomed like a watercolor rainbow of gentle pinks easing into fuchsia and deep magenta, pale blue erupting into wild indigo with feathered edges of green.
By Linda Caroll5 years ago in Poets
In third grade, the teacher read us a fable as he stood on cinder blocks our fathers couldn't carry anymore with as sweaty as their
By Jose Antonio Soto5 years ago in Poets
