humor
Running Ran Us Down
We weren’t there for the speeches, the pink Hokas, or the ambitious declarations—this year I’m running a marathon! We were called in later, after the fact, to repair the damage, step in when it hurt too much to step, and keep you walking without screaming. Running? That part, you handled on your own. We just cleaned up afterward.
By Tina D. Lopez7 months ago in Poets
In Spring Time
a fine as spokes without wheels is joy to this seat of this car a vine the man, because labored them them away... and now probablayyy coupled art and spring says we grapes, sharp. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts! Please leave a comment. Copyright 2026 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smith7 months ago in Poets
A Row, A Row, A Row...
a paper advice act now an electrical stat a medical stat a row of a row of subjects and "fats" a bask to kick it with in bed and enjoy carousel electing stats googling... are eyes not stiff but stuffed? up and down passed mail a lift from the average a buff? but don't care really I an amateur athlete being rows and rows and rows of "bad" "bad" "bad" cholesterol. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts! Please leave a comment. Copyright 2026 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smith7 months ago in Poets
Sweetie Bird’s Beak-Moving Blues
Introduction: Sweetie Bird’s Beak-Moving Blues By Vicki Lawana Trusselli "I’ve heard the whispers in the writer's groups. I’ve seen the headlines. According to the internet, AI is currently busy plotting a global takeover while simultaneously stealing our creative souls. It’s a great script for a sci-fi thriller and having worked in the film industry, I know a good plot when I see one.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 7 months ago in Poets
Is This a Rabbit Hutch Or An Apartment?
“Shut up. Yeah, you, up there!” I'm tired of pounding the ceiling with a broomstick. “Hello, Mike. I’ll get right to the point. Can you make the guy above me quiet down? I have to get up early for work, and he's banging on the floor—fucking! Get him a bed. Why am I calling you? You’re the landlord. Did you forget? Do not dare send your 'apartment manager' brother—he stole my antique Christmas ornaments, remember? I got them back after you both said they were taken to the dump, and then they suddenly reappeared when I wouldn't pay the rent. I’m not paying rent until this noise problem is fixed."
By Andrea Corwin 7 months ago in Poets
