Poetry
We believe that poetry is a form of storytelling. So if prose aren't for you check out our poetry guidelines and submit. We publish poems every Monday.
A Vegetarian Wolf Does Not Have Many Friends in the Jungle
a vegetarian wolf does not have many friends in the forest.
but the vast earth provides such a vibrant vessel of energy
the moon does not smell like cheese.
and there never was a fuckin cow that jumped over it.
but there was a man who lived in there and smiled until he realized the nursey rhyme was a crock of shit.
I Tried To Tell You
I tried to tell you that I love you
I thought you heard me, but I wasn’t sure
So I waited
And waited
And waited
A Womans Work.
The idea of being a feminist is not new to me.
I was destined to be one, or perhaps that was the most
shocking thing I could have become.
Having grown up in the South where everything was all
etiquette and lady like. Where my father lorded over my mom
as if she were property, an indentured servant of sorts,
destined to do his dirty, his emotional work,
his housework,
his all work.
About a Horse
It’s always the reins that put me off. That direct link to slavery.
A master designing a halter especially for his slave. Adjustable.
I Hear the Sinners Sing
I hear the sinners sing
my soul,
mercy
he mourns for a
benevolence
replayed on my radio.
Upon the Altar
Today I bring myself.
I bring forth form and substance
-weightiness-
I bring forth solidity
sometimes aching
sometimes free
but nonetheless a filler of the void.
Voice-less
The best looking of them all
Gets mistaken by the men
As willing to do whatever they may want.
Little Things
Remember when it was brand new;
when we were brand new.
How we’d sacrifice moments of sleep,
for even the slightest extension of togetherness.
How everything was mystery and possibility,
and inside one another’s eyes was an oasis of hope.
Hide and Seek as a Way of Life
Her hunger like a secret wanting oxygen, is hiding
as she crouches,
considering it wasteful to truly disappear, as others require her-
Curiosity nags her careful and considered breaths
and she hasn’t the ardor to say no to the children
so she seeks concealment.
Intestines
I am certain this life is not an accident. I have this ache in my marrow that throbs when I question this existence.
The Travelers
Sometimes we stop trying.
We sit back, and let it come.
And I like this softer side of
effort, washing water over
stone, slow and powerful and
steady.