There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Because you must answer for the pain you be-caused Citing and calling uncitable uncalled-for flaws Of a child, like you, who made yourself better
By Gerard DiLeoabout a year ago in Poets
Quiet Like Fire You thought that strength was thunder—fists, a storm against the door, A battle cry on every breath, a boot across the floor.
By Milan Milicabout a year ago in Poets
The Deep Thinkers Who Breathe Through the Storm Part Two An Outstages Cafe They speak in sparks, not shallow streams, Their minds ignite forgotten dreams.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
Sometimes keeping to yourself isn’t the worse thing ever. Maybe the solitary life is really better. It’s scary at first. There’s no one but you around.
By Joe Pattersonabout a year ago in Poets
Borrowed Spine I wore my fear like a second skin, all wrinkle, no design, until the day I stood up straight on someone’s borrowed spine.
A Deep Dark Night in the Jungle A deep dark night in the jungle breathes, Where vines hang low like secret dreams, And creatures whisper through the shadows,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
I speak in rhymes and mysteries Because that’s how I think My brain shittles riddles because it titillates my neurons It is how I do my best to get along in this world
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
We showed you our numbers, Yet, you didn't get the message. Now you've weaponized hunger, And think you're an invincible threat.
By CT Idlehouseabout a year ago in Poets
Candles That Don’t Beg I used to strike a match for proof, to bargain with the night, to hold a trembling halo up and call it borrowed light.
Wicked Is the Pain of Arthritis Wicked is the pain that creeps in silence, It waits until the house is still, Then curls its claws around the fingers,
We were the trees Sturdy on the land We gave life to one another We lived hand in hand The core of us the tree trunks Arms embracing, leaves
By Raine Fielderabout a year ago in Poets
Nocturne in Bare Feet The house exhaled; I slipped the clock and wandered off the sheet, Let midnight find its lullaby in nocturne, bare of feet.
