There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
"Lukewarm?..." Is that what they see? offended by my own surroundings‐ At what cost?... am I concerned what they think‐
By JM2 years ago in Poets
Mirror mirror on the wall Return their karma, to them ALL Map of time, round about I AM the ONE, there is no doubt Space and time, tick tick Tok
By Jennidoll of (jennidoll.inc)2 years ago in Poets
Listen to parents and your teachers Sunday church, itinerant preachers Go to school, pay attention Working nightly on retention
By Andrew C McDonald2 years ago in Poets
I appreciate my brain, it starts dictating stories, as soon as eyelids open. Note: I really feel thankful to the brain that keeps telling stories, morning to night. As a writer, it makes my job easier, and often effortless.
By Seema Patel2 years ago in Poets
The woman was pretty, and she knew it. Wherever she went, compliments followed— she wanted more. She magnified her beauty
I don't exactly believe in you, Yet I find myself speaking to the air. Maybe it's delusional, Definitely irrational, But I used to believe that you cared.
By CT Idlehouse2 years ago in Poets
DEPARTED The weeks are passing by so quickly these days. As each hour ticks by to a grandfather clock's talk, Like clockwork, I dream through every pendulum sway.
By Alina Kay2 years ago in Poets
Just like that— when my kid was baby I resolved, after procrastinating, for long years, to learn psychology, So I will understand,
They told me black is black, White is white; They only noticed the color of my skin, In their eyes, For me to have feelings is a sin,
By Carol Ann Townend2 years ago in Poets
On some days, the ideal flow is coherent, effortless, you just type. This morning was, one such fruitful one. In just two hours,
What if I am in midlife, I believe in keeping the subconscious, subpersonality inner child alive. For if she is happy, I am on the right path,
Time may blur the paths we tread, And leave old versions of us dead. But carve this truth into your head; Your past is written, not your thread.
By Loretta Emmons2 years ago in Poets
