performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
What Would Not Bow
I wailed waiting too, trying to save you, I turned, and we fell apart. Hardened by your safety, you opened your arms to flame and slipped from my reach. In grief’s rising sea, you wanted something to hold; I broke that in me. Her lies filled the dark, behind your father’s name left me bone and dust. Your gaze drifted east, leaving my south‑bound hands still; your borrowed gaze held mine. In the mirror’s stillness, I stripped the love held by my string, and found no more tears. I tried to nurse hope, glancing back toward the moon’s glow; it hid me, showed you. The still bear remains — no rose can move what won’t wake, the stillness that would not bow.
By Caitlin Charlton3 months ago in Poets
🌹Singing of the Singularity in the City of Angels, Love Authenticity 🌅🌅
🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅🌹 🌅🌅 coming soon Memorial Day . . . serving 20 years in the Air Force, dad, . . ..I never . . . forgiving you for the pain. . . . I forgive you dad . . . trying to help me your way. . . for you are in heaven now . . . flowing tears from my eyes . . . . releasing you from thy prison in my mind, . . . rest on peace. .. being . . free. . .
By SAMURAI SAM: Wild Wayne3 months ago in Poets
The Plagiaristic New Wave Tarot
Introduction I was not sure I could actually do this because the villanelle format is based on repetition., so I counted up the actual number of lines in a villanelle and got thirteen which I assume is appropriate for a New Wave Tarot based poem.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 3 months ago in Poets
An Actress. Content Warning.
I’ve reached out to my loved ones When I call, they don't answer Depression plus anxiety is like a cancer A claustrophobic cocktail with a Red Bull chaser A penciled-in problem with no eraser It's tailor-made, commissioned, stamped inside Embellished and embroidered with the stitches I hide My life's a costume parade, a year-round rave And I’ll do what I'm told to: Smile and wave! Seems I'm always the performer in this novelty show But I really do want world peace, just so you know God lives in the details, so I'll set the stage: A storybook setting with tears on the page Meticulously, I put the props in place With positive expressions painted over my face But it's never enough And I'm not allowed To separate myself from those who follow the crowd Where's the hope in me? Check the windows upstairs You'll see my dirty laundry hanging out in the air I'm carrying intrusive thoughts. I can't just pivot! You're out in the audience I have to live it This ain't a party or a picnic, and there is no relief I promise you there's more than five stages of grief Water-boarded dry heaves and cotton-mouthed cries The side effects of remedies for all of the lies I’ll swallow them down for this part that I play 'Cause everyone who knows my truth gets scared away The folks I need are absent, so far above me If they'd come to a show, I swear they'd love me Maybe they're right Perhaps I'm not worth the hassle Sorry, but your princess is in another castle The masquerade is over. Let me take a bow. I'll perform again tomorrow. It's time to rest, now. How did I get here? Practice. Practice. Practice. I'm not a faker or a fraud I'm simply an actress. AUTHOR’S NOTE: For me, poetry is both a form of escapism and an emotional snapshot. There’s an important distinction between writing from inside an experience and being defined by it.
By Laura Roodenburg3 months ago in Poets
THE LITTLE GOLD RING
THE LITTLE GOLD RING My mam and dad bought me a child’s gold ring when I was one, They had no savings, so I know it must have been hard for them, It sat upon a shelf inside our living room for years, I don’t think I ever wore it, but it was bought with love and care.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
NEVER POINT YOUR FINGER
NEVER POINT YOUR FINGER Never point your finger when your hands are far from clean, You may think you hide your dirt, but I can see what lies between. You throw your words like daggers, thinking I will take the blame, But shit often gets flung back, and it rarely misses the same.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 4 months ago in Poets
More of Self
The words they call Shakespeare Where is my pound of flesh In the darker side of humanity I expelled it across My ledger of creation From behind and below From the inside out I could use Damocles I guess That has stuck with me All my life It To proliferate My art In the shadow of the perilous sword My want Is to feel the Steinbeck In me, the understanding, beauty But the horror Without hiding Behind a ledger of Anything grey or black Was almost always more intriguing Or made the pure and good Even more impressive Forth with Jekyll My doctor my captain They The bastard I am doubt And cannot ignore All my Degraded egos And My own Disintegration In spite of Victor I am more Of self And dare each and every one Of you Out there To question validity And artistry As if communing with Those who came before Hemingway or Joyce Who echoed the halls Of history Through their fingers And felt the pains Of humanity In their hearts
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
