Applaud The poet.
Applaudhis blood,sweat, tears.
Applaudhis twenty-oneYears of writing,performing,expressing,traveling,unravelingthe reasonbehind hisrhyme.
ApplaudThe poet.Applaudhis mind.ApplaudThe wayHe usestime to Create art.
Applaudhis heart;his empathy;his compassion;his actions!
ApplaudThe poet.
Applaudhis teaching.Applaudhis reaching.Applaudhis deepthinkingand hisway ofspeaking.
ApplaudThe poetStandingin frontOf the Mic.
ApplaudThe poetWho knowsWhat you likewhen it comesTo motivation,stimulation, positive vibrations.ApplaudThe poet.
About the Creator
Christopher Sims
Christopher D. Sims is a an artist who writes poetry, performs spoken word, and plays the hand drum, wooden flute, and the African guitar. He uses his writing, speaking, and activism for social justice movements and peace efforts.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Christopher Sims and writers in Poets and other communities.
Stop a Bullet with a Poem
Stop A Bullet with A Poem If I could stop a bullet with a poem I would. If I could save one life with a poem I would. I’d throw each word like a disk or a shield aiming straight at bullets from 45s and 22s that has black, white, and brown families singing the blues, singing the blues.
By Christopher Sims6 years ago in Poets
His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
Timothy
My fingers inch closer to the keyboard, itching to obliterate a day's worth of work. It's some of my best writing I've done to date, but at what cost? The words seem to bleed, dripping onto my desk. For a millisecond, I'm sitting in front of a crime scene, looking at dead, begging eyes. Why? Why me?
By Alexandria Stanwyck7 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.