Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
6/26/25 The mailman stuffs our bills haphazardly again in wall-trapped timeworn cages that damn near come off the hinges every time I turn the key and
By Olivia Dodgeabout a year ago in Poets
Forgive my Speech, in saying that I'd rather not be conscious‐ I am only honest... in what my heart has chosen to speak—
By JMabout a year ago in Poets
The Earth weeps in me— not as thunder, but as soft, relentless rain. Not as screams, but as silence too heavy to carry.
By Dorking Wavesabout a year ago in Poets
A Breath Between Earths Earth 12 remembered. Earth 19 burned. This is the inhale between them. Sometimes the body speaks before the story does.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
We try and try, but the war rages on. We will not bow down, so humanity lives on. Our enemies try to take what is ours - yet, we still survive.
By Darcy-Jane Poetryabout a year ago in Poets
I Hate My Best Friend's Husband, Okay? I hate your husband. There, I said it. Not in the “he kicks puppies” way— just in the he doesn’t deserve you and it drives me insane way.
By Brie Boleynabout a year ago in Poets
Then ventriloquist dummy He swayed on cracked pavement, pint too full, Words slurred from lips that weren’t his own. “Say something, mate,” he nudged the wooden grin beside him.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
They mined my marrow, feasting on the delicacy, licking clean the bones and drinking from limber veins, laced with corundum,
By Ellie Hoovsabout a year ago in Poets
In city suits and tinted shades, they strut with hollow pride, Their voices trimmed in accents false, their egos open wide.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
Sleep… what is sleep? Right now, I don’t know. Maybe someone else can go— Go to sleep, of course. I wish I could. But I’m not tired.
By Clifford Kincaidabout a year ago in Poets
Humanity accepts that virtue has vanished in a sermon of hate. As each day passes, I keep my religion only to lose my faith.
By Jollyoddbod Poetryabout a year ago in Poets
There is no ring upon your finger, Does this mean there’s a chance? Maybe a little dinner, Heaven forbid, could there be some romance?
By Calvin Londonabout a year ago in Poets
