There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
How do other brains work? Do they circle around situations like vultures around a particularly messy carrion feast? Do they question their purpose?
By Katt Clark8 years ago in Poets
In the fight for peace, And the fight for freedom, He stood tall And as strong as a wall, The fearless leader of Britain.
By Katelyn Paige8 years ago in Poets
People walked for me, People marched for me , they were enslaved for me, this is my black history, I was told to move to the back of the bus, I was telling the world "I have a dream" I was told that I came from monkeys this is my black history,
By Briana Guerrier8 years ago in Poets
To dance To dance A dance of ecstatic joy, In the land where death has died, And New roses unfurl each morning In the soil of the soul.
the sweet cigarette smoke that fills your lungs, and the smell that flushes your nostrils, a divine concoction of guilt and love, such as the sight of a dying dove.
By Jake Yates8 years ago in Poets
Who I am is a question they ask…I do always question is their brain up to the task…the task of understanding which side is true?then again is my brain ever even sure what to do?
By Just-Jay.8 years ago in Poets
Simmer down for the domestic euphoria. Isn’t it hard to flip the pan? How easy to boil away the last storia. The little last turtle to hold out his hand.
By Niles Koenigsberg8 years ago in Poets
So young and naive I wasn’t in school yet but my cousin touched me with his hands but I was too scared to run to my mom 'cause I didn’t fully understand.
By Tåi Rënë8 years ago in Poets
I wonder how it feels to be accepted in a crowd? To be wanted and liked for who you are. To laugh and share secrets, like movie stars. I wonder how it feels to be happy.
By Deletha Jolliffe8 years ago in Poets
Sovereign born - A biologic collision that divided cells and inserted spirit into, what we call, the human condition. A mission -
They'll ask some heavy questions, as they should, when I am dead; like: "What sorta nonsense crept its way into that fellow's head?
By Paul Forshtay8 years ago in Poets
THIS IS A HORROR STORY, WRITTEN IN THE BLOOD OF THE DEVOTED, YOUR CONTRIBUTION HAS BEEN DULY NOTED. You was the voice of the people just the other day,
