If you're a self-confessed poetry lover, I'd be interested to know who your favourite poets are, what poems you ardently whisper in the early AM and what poems you wish you could shout at the top of your lungs on the highest rooftops. Isn't it quite something that poetry can be read whichever way and so many other ways in between?
Home (extract)- Warsan Shire
no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well.
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well.
Wishbone (extract) - Richard Siken
With this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
it’s all I have,
because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me
‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.
because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
bullet inside me
‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.
I Wrote This for You - Iain Thomas
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let the pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.
Milk and Honey - Rupi Kaur
how do you turn
a forest fire like me
so soft i turn into
running water
a forest fire like me
so soft i turn into
running water
shadows that spill over naked spaces - A.Y
tell me,
isn’t it tragic?
to open yourself up
like a museum,
to turn yourself
inside out, only
to have everything
stolen under the
night.
isn’t it tragic?
to open yourself up
like a museum,
to turn yourself
inside out, only
to have everything
stolen under the
night.
Unbloomed - Allen Ginsberg
Be careful, you are not in wonderland
I’ve heard the strange madness long growing in your soul
but you’re fortunate in your ignorance
in your isolation
you who have suffered
find where love hides
give, share, lose
lest we die, unbloomed
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