performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Daniella Hasel
Hey there Delilah, You be good and don't you miss me. Two more years and you'll be done with school. And I'll be making history like I do. You know it's all because of you. (Plain White Tees: "Hey There Delilah")
something wildePublished 6 years ago in PoetsSarah Liriano
Hey Paul, I want you to know that I'm stealing your sister, she's mine now. I'm taking her from you in all of her blissful and beautifully bright glory.
something wildePublished 6 years ago in PoetsAndrea Whitfield
My ride or die. My legend and savage in crime. She’s gotten me through plenty of things; dark days that I’m almost afraid to remember. At the end of the night, it always ends up being me and her. We’ll run in circles until the sun sets and when it’s dark outside, everyone else goes their separate ways, but we always stay together.
something wildePublished 6 years ago in PoetsMind over Matter
Page 1 I recall the peaceful and quiet neighborhood close to the shore Yet the crows kept following me waiting for me to vanish till i was no more
Joanelle RiveraPublished 6 years ago in PoetsNo
NO The word that's trapped in the deepest knot of my stomach. The word that wants to explode out of my body but instead implodes through the canyons of my soul.
Katrina Nilsson-GormanPublished 6 years ago in PoetsTurning Tomorrow's Today
I think I’ve spent too many nights turning and trying desperately to decide which side of my head I should fall asleep on
Kira StevensPublished 6 years ago in PoetsThe Black Shelter
The shelter they coloured black, for the wicked and insane, the green mask that hid your definitive face, you throw the first fist to show your strength,
Sarah-jane AnnisonPublished 6 years ago in PoetsUs Ending Me or You
Hi we meet again my name is I know you know, okay I like you, I mean your existence, presence, I mean I just I
Kira StevensPublished 6 years ago in PoetsBlack Woman
I am a Black Woman, With a capital B, My blood contains magic, From the Kings and Queens, Of Africa. I wear my mane, As my crown,
Jhé FergusonPublished 6 years ago in PoetsCruella De Void
“Cruella De Vil, Cruella De Vil, if she doesn’t scare you,no evil thing will!To see her is to take a sudden chillCruella, Cruella…”Window curtains drape acrossmy Persian Sarouk rug in the bedroom.The bear head above my bed frame is my protector of the night.My bedtime routine includes my henchmen washing my face to clear out my pores,a personal percussionist to help chime my way to sleep,and a maid to smooth out my comforter that took 20 rabbits to sew.I am the worst,but I am also the best.My walk is as fierce as if I split open the Red Sea with satin leather heels.Every time I trot on London streets,you tell your children to not end up like me.I am a jailbreaker ahead of my time.I strut in the path of suburban sidewalksthat are tired of the housewife’s cackles in the morning.A pair of plyers spread your last logical reasoning for looking.I know you cook by the stove,your only subconscious wish is to be me.You cook the meatloaf for the 3rd time this week.You think, if only if you were as free.You are the neighborhood’s trophy of hushed whispersduring your summer porch get-togethers;I am every one of your guests’ secret daydreams on lonely Sunday afternoons.God only gives us wingswhen we are ambitious enough to use them.Each day is a flight worth taking.The wind between the feathers I wearbrushes off any ounce of care.I lie in bed by myself, emitting independence toward the sky.Each night I feel a calming breeze,knowing the only love I needis the comfort of rabbit fur beside me.How content I am in the basket of luxury.But certain nights are different.I smoke long Parliaments in bed, hoping the hours pass by quickly.The memories are movie screens that flash on the ceiling at 3:00 a.m.The letters, Winston Churchill, the Suez Canal.His sacrifice for them meant blood draining down the sand;the war never blamed the Italians enough.
Tomorrow
I look upon today with joy. What will come? What we’ll see? What is our destiny? The morning sunshine, As soft as feathers on a mother hen.
Maya FeuersteinPublished 6 years ago in PoetsRunning Away Free
ANOTHER NIGHT in her skin, emotions floated through the wind. In the corner of her blue eyes everything became a blur. The building ahead of her was no more a structure but a heavy cloud. Facing forward she began to sprint. Legs opening wide, the shoes her feet wore began pounding heavily across the ground causing puddles of tears slashing up her legs. Her pace quickened more until the cold air bit her lungs but the adrenaline coursing through her veins forced her to push further. The harder she pushed the more her legs began to weaken. Screaming bursted out her lungs for that was the only weapon allowed. As her run became longer than it should have, what she imagined was sweat rolling down her face was instead tears rolling down her cheeks. Right now the soles of her shoes were tearing off, disappearing behind her but she was summiting her all to running...away...free.
T.J. FloresPublished 6 years ago in Poets