social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
To Be Human
Some days I believe in God... other days I forget how to pray some days I wake up dancing to some loud afro beats other days I wake up to some blues to cure my blues
Winnie RugambaPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPrisoner 6593-4
I don’t have a name I have a number Will my kids ever call me Dad? Will I know when they call me? Do they know I’m not that bad?
David AlemanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsOn the Run
“Run for Gawd sake Run!” laughing as they flee Running from the Copper’s or no longer to be free Petty crimes and petty dreams of how to make it rich
David AlemanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsAunt Maureen
twenty-five years ago when I was a kid you scared me to death I thought you were a witch dyed jet black hair pale white skin
Lon Casler BixbyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsDeal with the Devil
I saw the Devil and the Lord talking as if they were best of friends The Devil said to the Mighty one “Let’s bring this to an end“
David AlemanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsRare Breed
I am, without doubt, a rare breed My soul deviated when he shot his seed Twisted, depraved, and deranged I should've been
Jennifer KellyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPerceptions of Truth
What’s evil? What is good? What’s right, and what’s wrong? Who decided? Who said it so? Did you? Did you say so?
Luke McNamaraPublished 7 years ago in Poets"Not So Trendy Witch"
I suppose it's in the blood, to have magic pumping through your veins. When all my energy is depleted, Suddenly I feel the lightning and it rains.
Sara WarnePublished 7 years ago in PoetsLove is...
I regret my inability to overcome the pain of all my disappointments. So I try to live without expectation and there by maintain a threadbare existence. To simply live and to simply give. To look beyond the story of suffering into the truth of love and all the joy that is contained in the overwhelming currents of intimate connection. The story of Shama is the story of myself. The story of the peaceful goddess who exploded into a myriad of pieces and somehow each piece found itself and grew itself a new whole until the old reflection was no longer broken. But complete and unified in its own power. For itself, by itself, this is the nature of my soul. And if you are its reflection than yours too. For I am as timeless as the history of cosmic motion. Universe without beginning and without end. I call upon your higher self to trust again. To suspend all beliefs and concepts and simply trust in the unfathomable depths of each living breath. For it is in the breath that true being emerges. All else is just the containment and therefore sacred only in so far as it reveals the core.
Crystal PearlPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Soul Speaks
I have already lived through a thousand lives. Perceived this world through a thousand eyes. And though I've died a thousand times.
Dakota LanePublished 7 years ago in PoetsBroken
Broke...The type of broke that can't be fixed by Cast...Cast in Class and asking...basking in the thought that "the first is last"...bursting past and crash through glass...curtains cast on the thought that we all sprout from worthless past...worthless ash, from cigarettes and blunts...streets paved with broken glass...but ain't no yellow brick roads in "the hood," sidewalks consist of broken slabs...broken paths but, somehow the dreams awoken fast...we can only hope to see our dreams come true before our tokens cashed...but more often than not, our tokens cast...to the side and we're left to decided whether to continue to hope...or crash...in Americas Favelas where little children choke and gasp...to survive to Jr. High Jr's high and he hopes to pass..."do you need help?" The one question he hopes they ask...but they don't...now he's off to selling joints and bags, to buy some new shoes cause all they do is point and laugh...they say "you point one finger you got at least three pointing back...he bought a Strap...now they the ones he's pointing at...but it ain't no pointing back..."hands up don't shoot" they know it ain't no point in that...but they tried it anyway, till he points the joint and blast...tragic story, but it's the story of a good kid gone bad...
Talib WilliamsPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWar
"Deutschland, Deutschland," is his battle cry A Bayonet his weapon and a willingness to die Doing all he has to do to remember all before
David AlemanPublished 7 years ago in Poets