Top Stories
Stories in Poets that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
I Was Not A Rotten Piece Of Fruit
I was not a piece of rotten fruit that was meant to be thrown in the trash. I was only a tiny seed that needed time for her to be reproduced. I'm a living thing, not a mechanical robot. I was made to trip and fall, not to remember computer codes off by heart. Flowers need time to shine and become breathing figures. Robots are fast as race cars that don't need constant care. I was not a piece of rotten fruit that was meant to be stepped on and squashed. I was just a dwarf flower that took time for her to bloom, breathe, smile and shine.
By Talia Devora3 years ago in Poets
Storytelling, Poetry and America
Ever since my tiny chubby hands could hold a book, I have become passionate about knowledge. Growing up in a single-parent and impoverished household, my mother never ceased to instill the love of learning. I saw the power of embracing intellectualism, especially as a girl of color in America.
By Mina Rowland3 years ago in Poets
Infinity Evermore
Planted in eternity, with you, that’s where I will be. Planted in the bosom of forever, a realm where my love for you, Ambrosia, thrives like a rose bush in bloom in the garden of Eden, watered by the rivers of life. When my eyes held your being for the first time, it was divinity incarnate. I gazed not upon a person, but an imaginative experience in the flesh that left my mouth unable to speak, and my lungs unable to breathe. I hid from you, receded from the view of your almond brown eyes out of fear that your unapologetic womanhood and sensuality would crush my meekness. Love can be funny that way sometimes, its magnetic attraction is irresistible as it heaves at our heart strings guiding us to fulfillment in itself. Yet once we arrive, it seems to abandon us.
By Corey Mims3 years ago in Poets
When It Rains
I miss you when it rains. Writers have a certain sadness, I think. The peculiar discipline of scooping into one’s own soul, to pour it onto a page requires complete honesty. To write is to imagine oneself living, if only vicariously, as another being. That sharing of a mind, soul and body is exhilarating, but too, exhausting. The knowledge that you can make yourself into anyone, anywhere, brings a certain sadness and the relentless question of “Am I who I’m supposed to be?”
By Alyson Kate Long3 years ago in Poets