performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Weakness of Man
Why doesn't anyone listen, why doesn't anyone care, we all know we're equal, we all know what's fair, we understand that to persist, we need community, we need to love and share, jump out of the square, think outside the box, walk farther than you ever have, not just a few blocks, don't watch the time, ignore the clocks, feel the ground, appreciate the rocks, take in the tremors and shocks of the earth and our baneful behaviour, why do we look up like there hides our savior, our main man, who hates us all but understands, that money is the future, money is the plan, purloin anything you can, but get caught and he'll remove your hand, commit a sin and prepare to be banned, buried deep within the sand, deep within the fallacies, so far gone, you'll be in a different galaxy, perennial reality, where has all the sanity gone, what is going wrong, why must we cast out the young, poor and old, why can't we just all belong, together we stay strong, separated, we won't last too long, we won't survive the night, we won't wake up to see the light, since we will all be dead and gone, from the deleterious fight for peace, the idea that fell apart so quickly, piece by piece, a long awaited release from the cold grip of the darkness of man, this was never ours, this land, yet we spend everything yet nothing to live, how perplexing, I can't believe this is a thing, what more can an exorbitant amount of wealth bring, more kings and queens, cons and fiends, madness is their means, we are the squalid and dirty, they are the spotless and clean, feeding us the drugs from their poppy fields, what a weapon the evil wield, is this all real, this wound in humanity is deep, for all I weep, mankind never actually took the step, or made the leap, we just made ourselves sheep, then we fell asleep, how weak.
By Charles Freeman8 years ago in Poets
Home Abandoned
Old rugs and frayed ends. Broken glass and forgotten times. Empty cupboards and cobwebbed corners. The cracked floorboards senescence. The most astounding pendent hanging above, dust-covered; derelict. The presence of the past still lingering in the now uninhabitable infinite. The long grass, encompassing, portraying the lost to the living.
By lizzy danby8 years ago in Poets
The Kiss of Death
The Kiss of Death. Her beauty and grace covered by black lace. Her vibrant red lips shine with snake venom to pierce your soul with its icy cold bullet that carries through your bones. She whispers ever so softly the words of death's song which rings with an echo throughout your eardrums “Are you ready to fly?”
By Cayley Connor8 years ago in Poets
