performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
The Sins of My Father. Top Story - July 2024.
My Father chases the bottom of a bottle like it holds the universes best kept secrets. He's not a religious man; raised Lutheran, but he finds his Hail Mary's in the ecstasy of poison. He drinks from it, it drinks from him, and there he finds ritual in his God- this my body, and I give it up for you.
By Christiane Winter2 years ago in Poets
STOIC EVOLUTION. Content Warning.
this one is about relationships, across all levels of connections in the world. it's about changing the world by exacting control of myself and the community which i share, not trying to live anyone else's life but my own. accepting what is tangible and evident, and going from there. it speaks to understanding how connected and inter-dependent life as a whole is, but with a firm grasp on awareness of both responsibility for and authority of the actions i take and the contribution i make, even if and when mistakes are inevitably made.
By ⸘jason alan‽2 years ago in Poets
Love Me
Love me Love me now Love me later Love me drunk on happiness Love me sober on hard times Don’t ever let this be over Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
OR
I don't think souls are real Lest if I did , I think Whatever our souls are made of Yours and mine would be the same OR As different as a moonbeam from lightning Or frost from fire I don't think destiny is written But if it were, I'd believe Whatever our paths are paved with Yours and mine would align OR As divergent as a ripple from a wave Or the river flow from the mountain's peak I don't think silence speaks But if it did, I'd hear Whatever our silences are steeped in Yours and mine would blend OR As different as mist from fog Or a whisper from a roar I don't think this is the poems end But if it was Oh wait it is ! Did I say it all? OR Made no sense after all When does it stop ? With us I mean Or begin... -Lord Conejoh
By LordConejoh 2 years ago in Poets
