humor

A Sonnet To Myself In The Bathroom
A Sonnet To Myself Looking In The Mirror In The Bathroom Shall I compare thee to an Autumn morn, in ragged clothes all faded and worn?
By Liam Ireland2 years ago in Poets
Let Her Dance
I wrote this because I found this picture while looking for the cover photo of another article I’m working on. I thought it would be interesting to write a story around a random picture, so I saved it to my drafts. It’s been sitting there for a while. That was until it struck me today, and the story just poured out of me like water from a broken dam. I hope you enjoy it.
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Shoot the Piano Player
The comedy touches tragedy. The tragedy touches comedy. A man with a past finds it will not leave him alone, even when love, gangsters, prostitutes, and musical talent give him a chance.
By Kendall Defoe 2 years ago in Poets
Something More
Trying to keep the balance Under the valance Refraining from a dalliance Because I wanted more From the moment I saw you
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
My Small, Black Heart
Do not be fooled; this doesn't rhyme At least, not all the time + + Love, (Brother, Sister, Friend, Acquaintance, Fellow Traveller)
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Poets
Reception
I They tell each other, one face on the other. There is fresh bread on the counter, dry, the sound of things played. Provides
By MecAsaf2 years ago in Poets
The Mirror and the Witness..
I saw myself in the mirror today, And I thought, "What a strange sight to see!" A face that was old and haggard and gray, A face that was full of worry and glee.
By Shailendra Rathore2 years ago in Poets
Mother Combs Strikes Again
Little Judy Grote She was given a goat That would only eat things of oat On days it went out, it wore a coat And around his neck, he carried a stoat
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
Limerick(s) of the Week: So-what Laureate
There once was a poet romantic Who would drop names in meter pedantic The likes of Jesus, Nietzsche, or Freud Or deny even God to the void
By Gerard DiLeo2 years ago in Poets
Liminalia
Awoken violently by a dream Not a dream of violence A crime of sorts When your mind resorts to fusing the two In belief they should be the new other
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Spare Parts
Down in Devil’s Bog Lived a frog Inside a log Where he wrote his blog About Tony Hog Who liked to jog In the deep, dank fog.
By Mother Combs3 years ago in Poets
Insecurity?
Scarcity feeds bloating; it spews poison through yellow bites. My focus has never been more focused, nor has a silent distress been felt with such intensity.
By Rose3 years ago in Poets