Poetry
His throne room lies vacant before us, the halls of his reign, oblique, the air of his fellowship encapsulated in heaps of golden dust, remnants of pride, of arrogance, resentment, mutiny, and bitter, iron greed. Incriminate us, if you will; accuse us of slander, if you please. But when we lifted those shining, rubicund curtains
“I am an eighteen-year-old, second generation Asian-American. For too long, writing, language meant division—a disconnect. As the daughter of immigrants, it meant a barrier between myself and those closest to me. My Mandarin is too facile to carry on anything more than a superficial conversation. My mother once said that we are constantly, “grasping at
When there is a degrading comment used towards women, such as the one in this poem, I feel as though something must be said. It feels destructive and unproductive, but something beneficial can come out of any situation, including this one. So here is a poem about using a negative situation, turning it into an
As I sit alone in this old wooden bench with the feel of warm sand between my toes I wonder why it is that the beach is so calming. Why the beach is loved by so many and why it is that even if you dont get in the water or build a sand castle
This is a poem about second hand stores. Finding yourself in a sea of mirrors and endless name brands can seem intimidating. But when you look beyond the labels and appreciate something, such as clothing, for it’s individual worth and value, you are fostering an environment of originality and authenticity. And that is a lesson
I have no affinity for your fragile masculinity. Black men and black women don’t date we just create and hate each other for the rest of our lives. Not too many black wives because we are too strong willed. Not too many black husbands because they leave before they can build, uneven foundations and they
Apollo was a God in Mount Olympus. He knew how the heavens functioned. He knew how the Gods and Goddesses would be angered. He knew how the world would be frightened. He knew how everything worked. Apollo told me so many things that a part of me, thought he was lying. I wished he was
At times, She believed that she is meant to be the physical embodiment of loneliness The angel of solitude The constitute of alienation. Loneliness has this charming way of making the moon seem like her best friend and the sun as her worst enemy. Depression turned her into a cynical person. The world she once
As usual, I wrote this poem for a monthly challenge. The prompt? Broken Mornings. Digging deep into the recesses of my brain, I thought of the different things that could “break” a morning, and then I built a storyline from there. That’s all poetry is, in my opinion; storylines that are worded intricately enough to
I reach for my phone to unlock it and jot something down in my Notes app. It’s my last love poem. I’m writing my last love poem and it’s difficult to believe because let’s be honest, what else is there that people want to hear? Social issues? No one wants to read about that —
Image Credit to Wikipedia Many who suffer from sleep paralysis often see shadows in the corners of their room. Some call the shadow the devil, others the midnight man, but everyone who sees it calls it frightening. This is a poem about Donald Trump, a shadow we experience even when awake. It is about the fear
This prose poem is, quite plainly, about unrequited love. The speaker is someone that’s in love, and they realize that the person they’re in love with doesn’t truly appreciate them as much as they do, but they don’t really care. Even something as small as a glance is enough to refill the wistful hope that
