There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
S ometimes we gotta take the high road N o, you wouldn't understand because you're a toad A I-Generated content and comments galore K now that you cannot make fools of us anymore E ventually, even the best masks corrode
By Dharrsheena Raja Segarran2 years ago in Poets
We dream of hands that find our own, When shadows stretch, when winds have grown. We want a voice that softly stands, Beside us in the ghost-wrung lands.
By Kel2 years ago in Poets
Life now has become more terrifying, than any fictional monsters on my tv screen. I can pause a horrifying film and step away,
By Josey Pickering2 years ago in Poets
the best advice is to ignore them It’s not us, it’s not me, who really cares, It’s so far away, millions of miles from my TV, my phone screen, my home
By Melissa Ingoldsby2 years ago in Poets
I, tattered and torn pain internal reborn every day, every way nothing they often say lasts forever, but no nothing, ever goes away
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
We call ourselves wise — it may be the case when we are calm, when we have ample self-love. When we wallow in self-hatred,
By Seema Patel2 years ago in Poets
Our body, our greatest treasure The only house we have. Money can’t buy health, which we need to thrive — or even survive.
He was feo in cara, but his corazón was hermoso — and that’s all that mattered to her. Translation of the above English-Spanish haiku: He was ugly in face, but his heart was beautiful — and that’s all that mattered to her.
As the pendulum swings through our cycles of life We consider the life that we live How comforting though our contentment in strife
By Earl W. Pearl2 years ago in Poets
Haunted by plasmic ascendents long stranger to me, surviving bottle neck and extermination, I’ve been turned ghost in the desert, mourner by the sea.
By Chaia Levi2 years ago in Poets
She never knew the strength that came from delicate feathers that could fall and land with a gentle kiss to the ground. They left no mark
By Ellie Hoovs2 years ago in Poets
with flesh necrotic, in chronic habit to self-cannibalize in fevered attempt to suck out the venom not realizing, in our panic,
