I barely remember
I spend the night
in this dream,
waiting for you to leave.
Happy labor day!
Lately, I’ve made virtual ventures to a wonderful site called All Poetry (AP). I’ve enjoyed my shallow experience there so far, and wanted to leave a review for anyone who’s interest gets piqued. All Poetry features a few perks that make it an exceptional platform for writers and poetry connoisseurs alike.
All Poetry hosts a large community of friendly and welcoming writers. The fellow readers and writers have opened themselves to me as a newcomer. They even have special greeters to make you feel at home. From there, you have options.
Join A Contest
Similar to r/OCpoetry, AP allows writers to submit to contests after providing 2 comments to other posts in the same contest. Some of these contests provide monetary incentives and some are just plain fun. The contests range from the open-free-verse to the hyperspecific. I found this one particularly clever.
Join A Group
Like so many other online platforms, AP allows members to create and join groups. The multitude of those available appears as diverse as the people who reside there. The communities are welcoming and extremely responsive. You can hang in the back or expose yourself to a lot of helpful feedback.
Navigating through the site has been a breeze. Switching from comments, to contests, to your own profile is a cinch and the performance of the site overall feels powerful.
Once you’ve got your bearings, you’re ready to write. The platform offers a simple interface, but has a lot of pre-coded options for fonts and formatting. This interface lends itself to the poet especially as you explore some of the editing options.
That’s all for now!
Of course, you can find yours truly on AP if you’re interested, but I’d be just as happy if you meander over for your own indulgence.
I hope you enjoy your weekend.
It’s my job not to pay attention, but I listen.
I like to hear them laugh
and enjoy each other.
I love their stories and their snores through
a well-earned nap.
I like to hear their families say,
“Jacob turns eight this year.”
that’s Carl you’re thinking of,
but that’s okay.
I weep inside for
their breakup’s, their hard times,
their mom’s sick.
They piece my heart back together
when they ask their
if they’ve eaten. They called
just to ask that and if
they could pick anything up.
Nah that’s cool, shrugging lazily and only half joking. Several seconds pass, many long-winded metaphors, and eight god damn whiskey sours later.... Like eating grapes off the vine. It tastes less enjoyable, but overwhelmingly natural. Like a coke dealer on a netflix binge: three days with no sale, in love with the 80’s, pass the ice. I spent that time listening for someone to yell, “Stop!” Dispassionately poised for an assault on my character to my back and everything else to my face. Nothing happened, but dammit beg, for the question you already know: the fleeing happiness, asking instead for accomplishment and society’s benefit.
With black tendrils she sways, down her forehead and brushed back with toned, olive polish. Her clothes fall freely with her legs, her breasts, her feet bare when she can help it. Subtly, into back she fades - no, like the backdrop walks with her.