Stories in Poets that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Invites and encouragement I declined, Confused expressions are what I find, From youthful exuberance eager to go, And watch the corporate pageantry all for show,
By Emma Edwins (R.T. Edwins)4 years ago in Poets
After Pride Month is over Fear and prejudice does not abate There are still battles to be fought Everyday, at home, at work, at school and social
By Natasja Rose4 years ago in Poets
All the world's a stage And we are merely players, Or, so the story goes. But when the action stops, And the music fades,
By Misty Rae4 years ago in Poets
Putting pressure on the petals, sensing a familiar finesse, under the languid & listless rolling rains, tiny rivulets annex with their sisters,
By Jon Bayliss4 years ago in Poets
It starts... It starts with a rainbow. With colors dripping down my face in a rain of pride and acceptance. It starts with a community.
By Libby4 years ago in Poets
First place recipient of the David Middleton Poetry Award. Previously published in The Mosaic Literary Magazine. *** I don't write for you.
By Lena Beana4 years ago in Poets
I wish I could write anything about rage but I can only write about wanting things I will never have since things in the past can’t be changed or given
By Joe Nasta | Seattle foodie poet4 years ago in Poets
To form a more perfect union Present tense, not past The infinitive's infinity For you reading this tomorrow: Take it, reshape it, make it last.
By Ava Mack4 years ago in Poets
I was told by my parents that remaining in such a toxic relationship was a sin. I did not understand what they meant until I compared our love to each of the seven deadly sins.
By Bethany Tester4 years ago in Poets
I needed. I begged. I pleaded. I asked. I tried. You lied. I wondered, why? I knew. I accepted. I grew. I cried. I hoped. I learned.
By Jeffrey Sparks4 years ago in Poets
Permit me no grace if you can find me Arm cocked back, throwing stones at panes of glass Falling shards so sharp, they could cut the past
I hate watermelon. Lemonade is too tangy. When I was twelve we visited a museum and I saw how hot dogs were made. I haven’t eaten one since.
By Breanne Randall4 years ago in Poets
