performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The False Energy
The False Energy A Tale of Power, Deception, and the Hollow Light --- I. The Power That Wasn’t Kain had always been ordinary. A boy of dust-covered streets and empty hands, living in the shadow of those with true power. He was nothing—until the day the sky split open, and the light chose him. It entered his body like fire and filled his veins with something beyond strength. His feet no longer stumbled; his fists no longer trembled. He was faster, stronger, untouchable. The weak boy of yesterday was gone. The city of Obsidian watched in awe as Kain rose, lifting boulders with ease, bending steel with a flick of his wrist. He was chosen, they said. A gift from the gods, they claimed. But deep inside, beneath the rush of energy, Kain felt it—hollow. This power wasn’t his. --- II. A Throne Built on Lies The world bent before him. Men kneeled. Armies obeyed. The High Order, once untouchable, now listened when he spoke. Kain was their savior, their champion. But in the quiet hours, when no one watched, he stared at his hands, searching for the source of what coursed through him. The energy came when he called, but it had no root, no weight—only an illusion of strength. "Where did it come from?" he asked the Oracle. She studied him, her silver eyes unblinking. "Not all power is yours to keep. Some is borrowed. Some is a debt yet unpaid." But Kain didn’t care. He had climbed too high to turn back now. --- III. The Unraveling The first sign was small—an instant of hesitation in battle. He swung his sword, but the speed wasn’t there. The power flickered like a candle in the wind. Then came the second. He tried to lift a fallen statue, something he had done effortlessly before. This time, it wouldn’t budge. The whispers began. His warriors noticed. His people watched, waiting for the miracles that no longer came. "The gods are testing him," the priests said. "Perhaps he was never chosen at all," others murmured. Kain fought harder, clawed deeper into the well of power. But it was slipping, draining from him like water through cracked hands. Then, one night, it was gone. --- IV. The Debt Called Due Panic set in. He returned to the Oracle, demanding answers. "It is time," she said, her voice cold. "Power given is power borrowed. And power borrowed must always return." "Then take me back to the source," Kain pleaded. "Tell me who gave it to me. Let me make another deal." The Oracle only shook her head. "There was no deal. There was only the lie." And in that moment, Kain understood. It had never been his. Not truly. He was never strong, never chosen. He had been a vessel for something temporary, a conduit for a force that moved from one body to the next. He was never the owner—only the user. And now, it had found another. In the streets, a new name was whispered. A new warrior, blessed with power, stronger than any before. Kain watched from the shadows as a young girl stood where he once stood, lifting boulders, bending steel. She believed, just as he had believed. The cycle had begun again. And Kain, forgotten, faded into the crowd—just another man, stripped of his false energy, knowing the fall was inevitable for those who rose with borrowed strength.
By Samson E. Gifted2 years ago in Poets
For Your Indulgence (FYI): The Drinking Boys
For Your Indulgence (FYI): The Drinking Boys A Poetic Reflection on Thirst, Escape, and the Unraveling of Souls --- I. The Invitation Come, gather, drinking boys, Raise your glasses, lift your joys. Feel the burn, taste the night, Let the liquor guide your flight. Here, under neon haze, Lies the kingdom of the dazed. From the streets to dark-lit bars, Under moon and shattered stars. Each sip a whisper, a tale untold, Of hearts too young, of spirits old. Each gulp a promise, a dream renewed, Each bottle—a friend, a fleeting mood. But what price for nights so sweet? For liquor pools beneath your feet. For laughter that slurs, for tongues untamed, For bodies wrecked, for lives unnamed. --- II. The First Taste Once it was bitter, once it burned, But the thirst inside was unconcerned. The first sip, the first mistake, A single drop, a lifelong ache. The drinking boys, they learn too well, How bottles mask what words can’t tell. A shot for pain, a shot for doubt, A shot for days they dream about. So cheers to them, the young and bold, Trading futures to not feel old. A laugh, a joke, a drunken dance, A wager made on fate and chance. A bottle clinks, a throat runs dry, A brother falls, another tries. One more round—just one, just one— A game that’s played but never won. --- III. The Spirits Speak The bottle whispers, "Take your fill, I have the cure, I bend your will." The glass responds with empty sighs, The liquid pools like fleeting lies. "Drink," it urges, "forget the past, Your pain dissolves in me at last." And so they do, and so they drown, Each shot a brick that pulls them down. Once, they swore they’d stop at one, Now they drink beneath the sun. Morning vodka, noon-time gin, A cycle that won’t let them win. The barstools know their slumping backs, Their staggered steps, their blurry tracks. They are known by names like Jack and Jim, Like Captain Morgan, Crown, and Rim. Their arms embrace the empty air, Their nights collapse without a care. Tomorrow waits with a splitting head, A blurry memory of what was said. --- IV. The Losses Counted And what of dreams, and what of love? Lost to shots and push and shove. And what of fathers, what of sons? The drinking boys—they leave no ones. A lover cries, a mother pleads, But liquor plants its twisted seeds. Their hands once strong, now shake with thirst, They chase the cure that makes it worse. Friendships wrecked on whiskey waves, Ambitions drowning in the caves, Of bottle depths and bitter highs, Of sober truths and drunken lies. They lose the fights they never start, They pawn their souls, they trade their hearts. Their hands once builders, hands once bright, Now tremble weak in morning light. Their futures glassed, their pasts erased, A hollow hunger never faced. And yet they drink, and yet they cheer, Chasing something never near. --- V. The Reflection See them now, the drinking boys, Their laughter hollow, forced like noise. Their eyes are glass, their minds are blurred, Their tongues, now thick with slurred-out words. They drink to live, they drink to die, They drink to numb, they drink to try. They drink for courage, drink for fear, They drink to make the hurt unclear. But see the truth within their eyes— The empty space, the masked disguise. They chase the fire that burns them whole, They drown the body, starve the soul. A mirror cracks, their faces fade, The boys they were, now men decayed. The sun will rise, the night will wane, But some won’t ever
By Samson E. Gifted2 years ago in Poets
