social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Just a Little More to the Left. Winner in Say It Again Challenge. Top Story - July 2026.
Oh, your picture drives me nuts! Lovely gift, lovely gist, lovely grit Can you help adjust and hang it? Push it hard, rock it hard, stir it hard. No! Just a little more to the left... There! You got it... Stop! Fuck! Too much! Let's go again! Yes, we 're here together. Yes. Look around, look alive, look alike I'll get off my phone, I promise. Few more clicks, few more pricks, few more ticks Oh, the portrayed you is better. 'Cause it's mine, you're not mine, this is mine I can do with it whatever. You don't know, you won't know, you can't know Move for me and make it perfect , Go sit there, in the shade, lose the braid That's too much for composition, Turn around, smile a bit, step aside Just a little more to the left Give your all, give it all, give me all There's the bull! Can't you aim? Don't you see? Can it be? That's a miss for you I told you! Did you hear? Did you swear ? Just a little more to the left And you'd had it. Had it all. Had it all. Had it all. Public public public and public transport, forums, schools, health Now you pay for them good money That's the dream : it starts with us ! And the sick, the poor, the homeless They don't vote, so they can't play Some must sit upon our wallets For the dream and for the land Oh how different would this world be So much free r, and so brave ! If we scoffed those fancy armchairs Just a little more to the left Like their hearts, our hearts, their nature In the middle, beating fast But its tip, its peak, its summit, You won't find it, It's NOT there Are you looking? Move your hand then Just a little more to the left Those who left don't get leftovers Those who left in times of war Those who left don't get called people By the ones who voted right Persevering in their efforts To correctly stuff their mouths And those left, once we're all dead then? What about their solemn rights? We have looted, we have stolen from their future to our comfort from their planet to our plate Stuff your face with fancy fortunes Leave them nothing! Leave them shite! Once it's over and you're dying, you'll be cold alone and old Happy wondering what happened! Why's there nothing left to give? Could we maybe look for balance, less perfection, less possession And make sure that when we're dying In between our perfect pictures, perfect selfies, perfect lies We could maybe scrounge together Just a little more to the left
By Sasha Desideri3 months ago in Poets
My Mother's Skincare Routine
My mother's skincare routine was unparalleled and unique, at least it used to be. As I child I was witness to it while I sat on her shoulders – the woman who birthed me in another country and in another language used transnational waters and sloughing sediment to soften the ruggedness that a forced economic deregulation had on her once pearly skin. My mother's skincare routine was standardized not in front of a glossy bathroom sink, but of a sizzling grill. The rising steam relaxing the pores filled with meat grease. The dripping sweat glazing saline through a rippled desert that was this women's visage – the women who closed her nights underneath the red light therapy of a shimmering heat lamp and masked her face in concern over collagen. My mother's skincare routine was nonexistent and inaccessible, and it shows in her smile lines. Cracks and fractures, meridians that all lead to food on the table and an empty vanity case, her fingers replete with grime – the women whose nails were never painted but always chipped. She glistened with ardor and purpose, never with powder. Fixated in my memory as God's demonstration on what beauty really is.
By Jose Antonio Soto3 months ago in Poets
Sunnyside Down
at first, the eggs shine like tiny suns—promises of breakfast and simple joy. ...until the flat screen reveals disheartening trends caused by failing efforts. we reach deeper in our pockets, hoping to whisk optimism into the bowl—a little inflation never broke a dream. however, nothing moves but the price... we go about our day, never seeing the darker truth, believing in what should be believable: that life can stay kind and honesty doesn't spoil overnight. we budget. adjust. we trade steak for chicken and call it discipline, trusting that normalcy is just around the corner— that we will return to what feels right, to what makes us strive for freedom. yet, we're still left in the red, because nothing moves but the price...
By Lamar Wiggins3 months ago in Poets
