social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
Ledger
It's not my job or my commission to make you feel at ease when you turn the page in my ledger R. A. P. I. D Slow E X p l I cate this then If you can butwheye No handholding or making things eas I E R C O N T R O L (Confined) Exhibit a: confirmed Distract from disaster Distater from scandal Scandal for scandal H E L P [Trapped] 10safety10 Six denotes Pleisure S T A B.u.t. it's not my job to make sure you're okay L A I S Escher Please a M.inutes C.ilence Don't you feel tired like Ytniatrec Is tyred?
By Paul Stewart4 months ago in Poets
The Last Round. Content Warning.
It lies in my hand, cold as the unseen hand that clutches my heart. I swing out the cylinder. This is the last round. I raise my glass to the imagined friends, and they cheer. “Enjoy,” I tell them, This is the last round.” The drink burns. I relish the sensation one last time. The fight has been brutal. This is the last round.
By Dana Crandell4 months ago in Poets
The Mundane is Magic
I was rinsing off my paintbrush when I had the sinking realization that perhaps all the tiny moments where I whispered to myself, "My, what good luck!" were actually little bits of magic because maybe real magic is mundane, it doesn't come bounding in announcing itself by its full, government name, instead magic finds a way to weave itself so seamlessly into our everyday lives that it goes unnoticed in that normalized way that way where if you were asked, sure, you're conscious of the odds and how you beat them in the most surprising ways, but don't people do that all the time? What if magic is happening every millisecond? Each time a cell splits in mitosis, every new hair growing on your head, every single spider baby pouring from one egg, maybe that's all magic. Who's to say it's not?
By Lolly Vieira4 months ago in Poets
I C A R U S. Top Story - July 2026.
I don't think Icarus laughed as he fell, But wept so violently at the injustice Of being brought down for excitement That the ants on the ground mistook it For the kind of arrogant laughter they Expected to bubble from his mouth. I think he realized it was a lose-lose Halfway up when the clouds dissolved And the beautiful, empty atmosphere Spread its dark, wide wings of blue. The stars were too vivid and the moon, Far too small to find any comfort. Icarus must've known when he turned Toward the wide world of flashing blue And saw nothing but jeering expressions That the flames devouring his wings Were going to be the death of him. He must've known he was falling. I think Icarus knew that the world had Nothing but an obvious hatred for the Lofty eagerness of his spirit and smile The way it liked to dance with the stars Tempted the sun to make love to him And irritated the entire world below. Icarus must have wept when he peered Out of the sky itself like a god, like a star , And seen nothing but a cold ocean of deceit Pooling in the jealousy eyes of one hundred Lovers laughing as he fell, wringing themselves Dry on the pleasure of watching his doom. What is so funny about a man who only Wanted to soar through the sky and touch The beautiful edges of the thing that warms Soil and sand and souls and casts gold Across tree leaves and tea leaves floating In a teacup like Icarus across currents of air? I would have wept if I looked out over a sea Of souls bound to mine with braided strings Made of grass and words of eternal compassion Only them burning in their eyes, ignited by sadism. So there is no way that Icarus laughed as he fell. Icarus wept and the world pretended it was laughter.
By Silver Daux4 months ago in Poets
