- I am usually attracted to the cover, the synopsis, or even the author's name, when I choose a book to read. Then there are other times, when I choose a book by reading the first three sentences on the first page. However, Amanda Lovelace's poetry collection's title was the one that did it this time. the princess saves herself in this one.
- I can storm the streets in anger,
- The things,
- She was a borderline fanatic searching for the smallest of details, that seemed to but warm her heart.
- I am a poet.
- There is an undeniable parallel between the history of rice and skin colour. It reminds us that darkness equates to filth, and this is stems from classism. Brown rice had a history of being cheap pig food. Evidently, it became unfathomable for humans to consider eating something meant for a farm animal.
Poets in MotionWe’re celebrating National Poetry Month with our first poetry contest. Submit your most artistic, emotional, or hilarious original poetry inspired by movement—whatever that means to you. Use #VocalNPM to enter.
Only the ClassicsThe roots from which poetry as we know it has flourished. Taking you back to the classical era, one stanza at a time.
Life as a Poet Knows ItIndustry tips for new poets. Welcome to the Poets family.
- I might be gone tomorrow, but I’m on my way tonight,
- I tried showing you, but my actions were overtaken by false hallucinations.
- In the shadows of my soul I await for the spring... For the flowers to return to the meadows and for rain to refresh me... yes even me! My thirst is great and I am parched like the cracks in the desert floor. So come to me my love, yes come to me on the wings of a dove, yes come to me with the love of youth. For why should I suffer any longer in this lonely place? Until that day I will wait in my desolate abode and keep watch for you to come to me, over the new horizon. Yet though I keep watch I watch for the impossible, for once you were mine in misty memories of days of long ago. But alas you are no more...
- Its not just the fact that I might lose you again
- Lines crisscross her perfectly milky skin. Scarring it in ways my own body remembers. A patchwork of hate towards oneself. Her lovely skin, pink knees, pink nose. I hate those lines because I know the pain of them. I know what they represent, I know the moments of sorrow that lead one to hold the razor, or scissor, or knife. How you cry as you start but then this body takes that pain from you and you're somewhat at peace, acceptance, calmer. I hate them because I know some of them are new. I hate them because some of them might be from me. I hate them because I want to kiss her, and them, and if my lips could make them disappear, I’d kiss every single one. Every inch of her perfect body. Even the ones she’s hidden and tucked away. Even the ones in places you don’t want someone to kiss you or to ever find those lines. I hate them but I love her.
- Don't forget me...
- A dishonest cop! A liar and his partner both, cheat to death and play chicken on March 6, 2014. In the city of swaying palm trees and rainbows, it’s a disgrace. As their pistol is caught between ther legs, it’s a sick! Those, the two cops are a couple of Pricks.....
- Even after my Dad left, and mom fell apart❓
- Soak the pain and strain from my body, hands and fingers.
- My grandmother
- The Defense of Fort M’Henry
- We come to each other on broken wings. We burden each other with broken things. We settle upon branches of dying trees, in the middle of a forest with dying bees. We swim in the rivers of our own decay, and blame all the others for it being this way. We see all the problems, but we have few. We say that we're one but we act as two. We talk of our sorrows, ignoring those of others. We live on tomorrows, and forsake our own brothers. We seek out highs, yet we live so low. We talk about knowledge, but we don't really know. We cry into our pillows when life gets rough. We cut down all the willows to build more stuff. We live on a planet that has become a cage. We speak of elation, but only know rage. We are the only species that has damned ourselves. Stocking our stores; emptying our shelves. We come to each other with so many words. And at the end of it all... We'll die with the birds.
- But then the world turns on its head, and I fly amid celestial bodies still full of wonder after all the ache. Soft hymns waft about my dying vessel as memories fade into the nth dimension. Dreams of jade and turquoise project themselves onto the great black canvas of my soul; one more time for old time's sake.
- Where is God?
- Another chance squandered and crushed,
- All the enormous, violent and atrocious gestures of Hortense are violated. Her solitude is the mechanism of her eroticism; her lassitude an amorous dynamic. Beneath the watchful eye of the child, there is her, and her summer; in numerous eras, she has been the ardent purifier of races. Her portal is always flung wide for every sorrow. In that place, the morality of the living is released bodily by her passionate acts. Oh—terrible shiver of new loves on the blood-soaked grounds—Find Hortence.
- Today not having a thing at all, but all my tomorrow’s on a shelf, by myself... at the edge of the rainbow. She came into the picture till she kiss a beautiful eclipse, it hit. Lots of interesting drops at a new day, of the coffee grind, a drip drop of coffee, on the topic of the ideal taste.