Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
What is that? Is that music? I don't need that, I don't need a beat I don't need a metronome, I'd probably just turn to stone
By Ezra Berkman8 years ago in Poets
Isn't it ironic? The things that make us who we are, the things that make our souls beautiful, can actually be hideous, terrifying and evil?
By Destyni Schmuckal8 years ago in Poets
Poetry Is more than just words on a page. It comes with a sense of pleasure, To the carefully listening ear. The sheer physical, sensual, arousing feeling
By Emma Lynn8 years ago in Poets
I have this friend. Let’s be honest, she’s not my friend but another half of me called anxiety. She’s always there making me second guess my decisions.
By Jessica Elizabeth8 years ago in Poets
its just me walls closing in screams after screams no one hears me. its just me stuck in this place I can't escape
By Marquan Nesbitt8 years ago in Poets
My seafoam hair comes out in clumps, tangled strands winding around my fingers every time I brush back my bangs or twirl dry and splitting curls. I am used to it now, dropping
By Kye Earley8 years ago in Poets
When I was a little girl I told my daddy I liked the smell of his truck, and he lifted an eyebrow at me, gripping the steering wheel
It’s 12 o’clock and you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the only light in the room being those glow in the dark stars you used to have as a kid,
By Joey Hansell8 years ago in Poets
It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you A few months in fact You pick me up from the airport and you ask “How are you doing”
By Laura DiNovis Berry8 years ago in Poets
I am a woman. I wear pink, I wear makeup and I do everything in my power to make me feel better about myself. Backtrack to Grade 1...
By Madison Saurer8 years ago in Poets
The world around me is alive, but I'm not; not really. I'm just here. Standing; sticking to myself with my exterior armor in all it's graffitied glory.
By Marisa Shrock8 years ago in Poets
Come with me Let’s run away Go to a place Where we can hide away A place where the sand Is blue, and my hands Outreached to you
By Laura Ann Rickard8 years ago in Poets
