performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
It's Not Chocolate
Wait! Don't lick at it! It looks like chocolate sauce But really it's ... * Thanks for reading! Author's Notes: I think we all know what the last word on the last line is meant to be. Something parents around the world will surely understand - chocolate or pooop?
Paul StewartPublished 7 months ago in PoetsSecrets to a Long and Fulfilling Journey
In life's grand tapestry, a secret told, To live long and well, let wisdom unfold. Embrace the gifts of nature, rich and pure,
Esther AnimaPublished 7 months ago in PoetsDivorce from the notion
Divorce from the notion there is no such thing as devotion to anything or anyone other than yourself Address all the stress
Paul StewartPublished 7 months ago in PoetsMoonlit Love 🌙💕
🌙 "Moonlit Love:" 💕 In the tender glow of the moon's embrace, Two hearts entwined, in a tranquil space, Beneath the stars, our love takes flight,
Sophia HayesPublished 7 months ago in PoetsI hit the dancefloor
I join the dancefloor Missed my step. Splash I go. Music stops. Silence.
Peekaboo
Chrissy on the stairs Me Delighted. I yell "Boo!" It was not Chrissy
Lament of the tombstones
Broken and forgotten, lichen embracing its cracks and fissures the moss-covered graveyard mourns in eerie silence. As i walked among the dead and mouldering leaves
Novel AllenPublished 7 months ago in PoetsWhat love?
~ WHAT LOVE? So many stars at night Some shines brighter, I must say How big the sun in the day It blinds, I can’t deny Still, it’s been this way for decades
Lost Words
When the sun goes down, I like to lay on sunrise sanctums Forget-me-nots sing in the sun freeing the blue inside me
Mya DoerksenPublished 7 months ago in PoetsBlue
I find colours tracing the entrails of syllables and lines. There’re music notes hidden beneath the vowels and periods and every little word has been used a thousand times. I associate family with weekdays, and weekdays with colours. The most calming and beautiful one writes poems for me. I wish I could wear it and hold it in the palms of my hands, to paint it over my body and dye my hair and skin the brilliant butterfly colour. Here, have some blue, calm yourself. Yellow sweaters. Turning blue-knots. Sitting silently in the crying rain. Teeth churning into milk, pooling endlessly onto the rusted rails of an old subway station named red with the Abyss. Forget-me-nots lace the tracks, resembling the liquifying amnesia I choose to forget.
Mya DoerksenPublished 7 months ago in PoetsPeace In Pieces
Why did we write this piece? Tell us soul, will it bring us peace? The 'peace' left in pieces? // Perhaps we only have a piece of peace,
Muhammad BayazeedPublished 7 months ago in PoetsThe Dream-Weaver
Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Maya who was haunted by overwhelming urges. She didn't know where they came from or what they meant, but they were always there, whispering in her ear, urging her to do things that she knew she shouldn't.
Brent J. SmithPublished 7 months ago in Poets