Free Verse

American Idol. Content Warning.
When did accepting Jesus as my savior mean I had to have the devil as my president? Someone who thinks the road to paradise is paved in actual gold and wants to pocket the bricks. Someone who, when he tells you he won’t make it to Heaven, you can take him at his word. For once.
By Sean A.7 months ago in Poets
Pricetags
What right do we have to those choices we didn't make? the what ifs, the if onlies, the candle in the dark left burning, who's to say
By Harper Lewis 7 months ago in Poets
The Half-Eaten Letter
I found a piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, torn like a broken heart. It was a letter I never finished, ink bleeding into the fiber
By Hazrat Umer7 months ago in Poets
The Glass Horizon
The Glass Horizon By Stephen L. Harrison Nothing is locked away— not now, not said in whispers. The walls lean in. The glass has eyes.
By Stephen Harrison7 months ago in Poets
The Glass Apple
I held it in my hand, cold, heavy, and clear. A fruit made of glass, shining under a single, naked bulb. It was beautiful,
By Hazrat Umer7 months ago in Poets
Today, I'm leaving France
I tried to learn French properly—five new words a day, lined up like obedient children in a notebook, running off the moment I open my mouth. I drank red wine with dinner like that might fix me. It didn't. It just made me feel like merde with an accent. I never ate the croissants. Never snapped a baguette under my arm, wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper.(Thank you, Celiac—a lifelong exile) I never stood in a gravel square throwing metal balls with old men like we had nowhere else to be. I did not become more French. But sometimes, I swear there is a woman inside me now who did. Un petit peu. She eats cheese slowly, and does not apologize when dinners stretch over hours like time is something yours to spend. She wears my body like a borrowed coat, orders macarons I won't taste, drinks café au lait on loud Parisian terraces like she was born from the noise. Today, I am leaving France, but she is not coming with me. Or maybe she is the only thing I get to keep.
By Imola Tóth7 months ago in Poets
She Waits by the Window
She Waits by the Window She waits where glass forgets the sun, her face half lost in broken light, a stillness stitched into the frame,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 7 months ago in Poets
The Painted Sky
The city was a gray machine, ticking with a million cold hearts. In the winter of 1950, London was a ghost of a forgotten dream.
By Hazrat Umer7 months ago in Poets
Academy. Content Warning.
In love, I trace Invisible seams Tongue mapping Ley lines Drawn by My mouth Some kind of Cartographer Laying claim to
By Aspen Marie 7 months ago in Poets
April
Monday’s Icarus Sails past grey gardens Still sleeping under Blanketing snow I know you well Flying high above I have become
By Aspen Marie 7 months ago in Poets
Depot
I was there before the war, providing the tiniest depot on the railroad without rails or road. It was so small even my parents didn’t know.
By Harper Lewis 7 months ago in Poets
The Light at the Back of the Raindrop
Catch some fractured light if you can of no size, no distance, and of no real existence, and hold it in your hearts. The light at the back of the raindrop
By Natalie Wilkinson7 months ago in Poets