Stories in Poets that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Ignite your voice: Why the end of victim's silence is powerful
Inspired by the feeling of helpless rage when you can't find the words to express yourself or defend yourself. But stillness and silence do not last forever. And when they break, when we find our voice and discover its power, we ignite with all the words we have been burning to say.
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.
In Defense of Poetry
You say poetry is nonsensical that it is overly emotional and thus encourages the delusional To the point of being inconsolable
At the Theatre
According to the Poetry Foundation, an ekphrastic poem "is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art." For my own take on this, I've chosen to describe Prudence Heward's "At the Theatre" (1928).
When She Takes Flight
from the weight of a million worlds, all curdling and swaying in her mind, she wanders a cityscape and dreams every dream is another place, a scene,
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.
My girls are Iron Earth-born. Blazing trails of fire and glass. Trebuchets who, with one shot, a single look will leave smoke where you stand.
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.
Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains. Revealing the spiritual energy of the golden hour. Thinking back to the day before but am uncertain.
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?”
Our American Heroes
They represent The red, white, and blue They stand before our flag As they salute No one will understand the bravery it takes
It has many forms in our lives. Hardly appears the same way twice. It stands still as held breaths and sighs It can be a cruel creature, or it can be nice.