performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Dior Diorella Eau de Toilette
My life is perfumed. I've laid in bed at thirteen, my gaze transformed from last night's reading, with the savory spiciness press between the pages of a book as it rests against me. In the shower, I washed my lover's hair after a night of vodka and sweat, the blend of fruit-scented shampoo, steamed water and our clean skin after a hot shower penetrates my pores.
By Elanda-Isabella Atencio8 years ago in Poets
Oops
To Whom it May Concern, If you are reading this then I'm already gone. Where I am is none of your concern, just know that I am gone. I had written this letter anonymously, mostly because I'm a shitty person. I have done some shit and said some shit that has caused me to have to run out of town. I'm not writing this because I want to scare someone or confess to a crime. I'm saying this because if I turn up dead, know that it was because I broke my grandmother’s antique clock she was given when she was a child. I have to leave the country, and possibly move planets.
By Savannah McCain8 years ago in Poets
Trapped in My Own Mind
Sometimes, mental illness feels like you're stuck. Can't get in, can't get out. You just kinda stare blankly while sitting at the edge of your bed, wondering what you can do. The medicine helps, but it doesn't cure it, lets be real here. In this poem, we view the feeling of mental health taking over as being trapped in a deep well with the stone covering the top. Lonely, afraid, and dying to get out.
By Phoebe Carmichael8 years ago in Poets
Journal Entry IIV
Journal Entry IIV -the Feed Every morning I'm in hiding, chillin'. Waiting for night time to start killin'. It's simple to a veteran villain, though the trick is to not get caught. Your forefathers in burn'd graves rot because, to the stakes, they could not have fought. The very thought of the thrills send down my spine cold chills. The hunted over the hills, my prey I must find. It is so divine to pursue that of which is mine for the taking. A show I am making. Let's go. Lose, no! Not ever! To clever. The nightfall extends. All insanity begins. The bloodshed will frenz's. Dusk hours will end, sunrise. Run—
By Robyn Welborne8 years ago in Poets
