excerpts

Poets Media isolates the most poignant, powerful, and exquisitely composed verses and quotes in the universal poetry canon.

How Does Mental Illness Feel?
I wrote this poem over a year ago (for a mental health awareness poetry contest) but it still holds quite a bit of truth to me and I want people to feel less alone, especially if they are struggling. I did end up winning and got it published in a blog.
By Rene Peters4 years ago in Poets
Things are colder, now.
It aches to love her. In every breath, in each day that passes, I think about our fates — rooted in flesh and fruit and blood — and rend myself anew. I think about her entry into this world. When she slipped from me, red and screaming, in the depths of that great, golden garden.
By Lauren Entwistle4 years ago in Poets
Journey
As a travel afar, through fields and ridges, dessert heat even some red hedges, I come to the top to see the way, man that's far, but not too far away. So I dive and I jump I dip but not dapper, I run thru the heat I push and I push, notice out the corner of my eye, raptors coming thru the brush. I scream and I run I can't seem to find my home, I hear a lady say you can do it, so I grit down and strut some more, night has fallen now I'm almost at my shelter, I must take a break now till dawn, so I don't risk, I goto the water to quench my thirst..... I got ate by damned ole fish....
By Truman4 years ago in Poets
Pinky Promise
The air smelled like sunset, And our fingernails resembled dirt devils. We’d dug a hole halfway to China as far as we were concerned.
By April4 years ago in Poets
RED FLAGS
You should’ve come with a warning label, at least a caution sign, to let me know I was in danger. Stay back 200ft, not responsible for cracks and lines, if you end up mangled
By Shelby Munday4 years ago in Poets
The Last Day Of Summer
September 21st is the official last day of the summer season. Summer does not end in mid August when students go back to school to study and do their homework. We usually forget summer when we go back to class but summer is still there. Summer is still present for a couple more weeks. Summer probably wishes more people basked in her glory till the very end.
By Amira Buckly4 years ago in Poets
Naive Unprepared Traveler
Home has different meanings depending on a variety of factors and circumstances unique to an individual but to me home is where you can trust the toilet seat. Kidding ! In order to fully express what home means to me i’m gonna share a story that’s been embedded in my heart for 9 years. There once was a nomad who became infatuated with purpose. He grew weary of traveling and desperately sort out direction with a tangible destination. As time progressed the infatuation grew and the nomad began experiencing syncronicities aligned with purpose . This sparked a sort of mysticism in the nomads soul. Blissfully he ascended day to day month to month year to year always learning but never reaching a concrete destination. The nomad had acquired everything he thought would make him whole money, fame, women , social status but still felt as if he hadn’t arrived at what he began to strive for. One day the nomad came across a wizard who promised he could expedite an arrival at said destination. Without giving it a second thought the nomad agreed to the service. After the service the wizard laughed and vanished into thin air and the nomad quickly noticed something was off. The things he had learned throughout his journey were solidified into his consciousness and the world he had been so familiar with was now very strange. It was as if his mind was casted into a prison and the things he had learned throughout his journey became the shackles keeping him entangled. The nomad then vowed that he would dedicate the rest of his life to getting back home.
By Vaughn4 years ago in Poets
This Must be the Place
Though I live in a bustling city brimming with all factions of this sea of humanity I’ve found my beach haven, my beautiful Venice hood, the perfect spot for me.
By Janet Freedland4 years ago in Poets
Deja-Vu
Some say that home is two eyes and a beating heart. Home and you are words that could never be torn apart. But even after all this love we pour, why can’t I shake this homesickness from my core?
By Jazlyn Burrell4 years ago in Poets
Deployment Return
Soldiers kept pouring into the Djibouti National airport sweaty and masked, struggling to breathe they didn't follow
By Erin Smith4 years ago in Poets
Waiting For Ghosts
Sleeping all Sunday I pray to God that he keep his distance. We keep up the famous bad times. We slander the saints and coin the frauds, we call for brighter minds and claim that silence is a sickness.
By Craig Johnson4 years ago in Poets
sporadic life crisis
I’ve always hated the term “mid-life crisis.” every day springs a new disaster upon me. I lost my “last” pack of cigarettes yesterday.
By Kasia 4 years ago in Poets