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samihah wildwood Jul 2017
you are
the depth in the backdrop
the swirling dust motes in the angled lighting
the soft ascent of velvet curtains
brushing against a bare stage

as well as
the lead role

— backstage | the whole performance
you set yourself up for the things you convince yourself into being
Cherisse May May 2017
No matter the spotlight and attention
Or the sea of applause
Or the congratulations from everyone
You still think I don't matter.

No matter what performance I do
Or show I make
Or the difference it makes
I still do not matter.

No matter
What talent I have
If I wasn't him
I'll never be good enough.
i'm sorry.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Mary-Eliz Apr 2017
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
I execute it all for pay.
My daily trade is killing time.

I slice the day up like a lime
in sections green and silver-gray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

I'm practiced in this pantomime,
proficient, quite au fait.
My daily trade is killing time.

Like a hit man in his prime
I knock off the hours of the day.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

Yet killing here is not a crime;
it's merely the established way.
My daily trade is killing time.

No. killing here is not a crime;
it's the toll road through this fray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
My daily trade is killing time.
As a person who likes to stay busy, I hated it when, after 16 years as Audit Director at a university, I was transferred to Assistant Controller working for a person who truly earned her title as "Controller". Since the decision had not been hers, she resented it (as close as I can figure, anyway) so she held back on assigning me work or letting me do work, even when she talked about being swamped. Also it was a large office and I couldn't help but notice a lot of "goofing off". The situation was grist for the mill for this poem...and luckily didn't last long. I left and went in a whole new direction and have been my own boss ever since. :-)
Druzzayne Rika Mar 2017
The echo was all around
there was violin playing in the background
The colour were red , brown and yellow
And strong emotions were going in flow
The place was candle lit
The show was on ,the stage with act
Silence and hands ,ready for applause
All enamoured by magnificent performance

But in midst ,there was slight mishap
Entire drama halts with one mess up
And everyone's attentions on the disrupt
All the efforts went to waste with the interrupt
Everyone forgot the show , and voices rose
The enchanted crowd now are indifferent
The performance became ordinary from brilliant

A small thing going faulty can make your efforts go awry
A small mistakes might makes a big difference
A small wrong can undo every rights
cait Mar 2017
i watch each act
you're putting on
i clap at intermission

but i can see right through
your costume
yes i can truly listen

with every laugh
you belt out
i hear you loud and clear

while the rest of
the whole audience roars
in your skin you shake with fear

you've put on this show
too often
not enough rest between nights

that you and i both know now
you're imprisoned by the
spotlights.
Nico Reznick Feb 2017
I was overwhelmed by the enthusiastic response this poem received when I posted it last month.  As it seemed to resonate with the current prevailing mood, I figured I'd try a quick spoken word video to go with it.  

Thank you again to everyone who commented on, liked, added and reposted the written version.

https://youtu.be/wGxRvuMWCig

Credit for filming and editing goes to Cornelius Something of Manufacturing Content  
manufacturingcontent.co.uk
Tamal Kundu Dec 2016
Goliath intention
Glitters within reach on
Grecian hallowed ground; the
Girl forged by sweat and chalk
Greets the beam with pristine
Gainer flip, ready to
Grasp the world with her feat.
Form: Pleiades G
Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.

Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.


When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.

"Have you considered being a *** worker?"
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".
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