social commentary
There's a rich history of poetry serving as social commentary, intended to inspire calls to action.
No Space
NOTE: For added artistic impact, I wrote this poem with no spaces between words, but capitalized each word for easier reading. Below the initial poem will be a version with spaces added should the original be too disorienting to read.NO SPACENoRoomForErrorButWe’reAllSurroundedByTheTerrorInTheKingdomNoOneIsFairerNotEvenTheRingBearerWhoOnlyHoldsTheRingWhilePeopleGlareAndStareAndMakeDeclaresEatingTheirEclairsInTheirRoyalChairsButThey’reNotRealThronesCauseTheyCan’tReallyBareTheInsaneAmountOfPressureThatIsThereAndIt’sEvenTheirsGoodGodHowCanASimpleConceptGetSoComplicatedAndItPredatesAnythingEmancipatedMakingUsJadedNotSlatedForThisToBeRaidedButIt’sBeratedIfThereWereSuchARatingItWouldBe”B”RatedAndIt’sStatedAndStatedAndStatedAndSTATEDItGoesAroundFasterThanAnF5TornadoAllWorkAndNoPlayMakesJackADullBoyAllWorkAndNoPlayMakesJackADullBoyAllWorkAndNoPlayMakesJackADullBoyAllTwerkin’AllDayBitchMakeJackATallBoyHindsightLaughsAtForesightAndIt’sJustLikeHowCan’tYouSeeThePlightThatMakesUrbanAndSuburbanBlightSoBrightEnoughToBothShineAndCloudWhat’sRightMakingThingsTightButNotSlangTightButTriteAndTriedAndATrueFightSoGoFlyAKiteMakeSureIt’sGotGraceInThisCrazyHumanRaceThatUsainBoltCouldn’tWinWithRocketShoesAndTheWindAtHisBackGoingDownhillOnAForwardMovingTrackButThat’sTheCaseThatWeGottaFaceMaybeWeCanTraceBackToWhereItInterlacedButIt’sSoTightSinceWe’reGivenNoSpace
By E.J. Tangonan8 years ago in Poets
On The Edge
"I am an adolescent! No one understands, no one knows my great, sorrowful pain!" Adults are a joke. They wonder and somehow also believe that there is nothing to "get" about a teenagers life. They say "I was you once!" So wistfully and somehow forget what it was like to be whomever they are speaking to. Maybe they just became too cold and calloused. If that's the case then I'd rather never become an adult. I'll trade wisdom and maturity for the ability to sympathize and empathize with those who I "once was." For now I stand where the Lisbon sisters once stood. On the edge. Key in the ignition. Oven on. Noose tied. Pills in hand. I'd leave for things done to me, things no one cared to do, and the genuine fear of what I could become if history repeats. "I'd leave." As if it's as simple as slamming a door and never looking back. It's more like having several large mansion doors dropped on you from several stories high, and simultaneously forcing open doors that were holding back terrors of catastrophic proportions for anyone who might have cared for you in the slightest. It's as simple as opening a bottle in the moment, but the aftermath is as simple as quantum physics. The aftermath of either road is what constantly has me teetering towards either side of this conundrum. Die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Decide for yourself the how and when, or leave it up to fate. Either way it hurts people who love you. It becomes a choice of "Do I want to hurt them? Or will it be the random, fate-riddled end that I meet that causes them such great pain?"
By Faith Moreno8 years ago in Poets
Into the Void
The wind whipped the strings of my hoodie against my face as if trying to strangle me. I stood at the edge of the cliff, close to the mountain peak. All was silent, minus the occasional shrieks and howls of the wind. It felt as if everything was still. Like a presence pressing upon my head and heart. As I gazed over the precipice viewing the trees and empty space that separates me from the bottom far below, I am overcome with melancholy. The wind slowly fades out of hearing, and I listen, its my heart beating, the blood pulsing through my veins, my breathing which has become less. Little by little all sound fades away into the nothingness as the last ray of twilight disappears beyond the horizon, stealing the golden paint from the skies and splattering it with blacks and blues. I feel the presence of it. The lack of life. The oppressive feeling of separation. The desolation from the music of life cut off. The vacuumed chasm below me. L'appelle Du Vide.
By Jordan Belville8 years ago in Poets
