social commentary

There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.

The Dessert
We waded through a thicket stitched of time, Where clocks hung heavy, dripping purple juice, And summer wore a coat of velvet grime,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The orchard clocks run backward through the floor, Where bruised Macouns float in a lavender sky, And memory drips like amber from the door
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The summer warped, dissolving at the seams, Where grandmother’s kitchen bled into old dreams. A clock without hands ticked backward through air,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The autumn air hung heavy, spun of glass, Where floating amber clocks began to melt. Beneath my shoes, the velvet-purple grass
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The kitchen floor is built of drifting clouds, Where grand-dames churn the fog and weave the shrouds Of yesterday. A clock melts on the wall,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The kitchen ceiling melted into blue, A clock spun backward, losing half its hands. Grandmother’s apron smelled of morning dew,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The kitchen clock dissolves to dripping wax, While ruby moons bleed down the porcelain bowl. A summer afternoon caught on the racks,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
The Dessert
The autumn sky dissolved to liquid brass, We baked the crescent moon beneath the glass, Stirred amber memories in a copper bowl,
By Forest Green20 days ago in Poets
Shadows Waiting to Fade
Writing in the midst of my own personal chaos seems far more easy than writing by the serenading seas... Far from a war path, more a form of temporary escapism from the now...
By Armand Slayer20 days ago in Poets
THE STRANGER AT MIDNIGHT
THE STRANGER AT MIDNIGHT At midnight someone tapped the pane, Three gentle touches through the rain. I drew the curtain back to see, A stranger standing there for me.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 20 days ago in Poets
Down in the Valley. Top Story - October 2026.
Yea, though I have reached my peak in the Valley of the Angel of Mediocrity, I shall fear no fame. That fickle bitch will never know my name. The stars don’t even bother to look down on me, let alone keep a map of my destiny in their back pocket. But who cares what they think? Like most of the rich assholes down here, we barely know their names and only care about what they leave behind when they die.
By Sean A.20 days ago in Poets
TEARS ON MY PILLOW
TEARS ON MY PILLOW How do you heal a broken heart, When night comes round and the tears all start? I put my arms round my pillow tight, Pretending someone holds me tonight. I kiss the place where your lips would be, And wish there were arms reaching back for me.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 20 days ago in Poets