Poets is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.
How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.
How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.
To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.Show less
Pondered on a love letter
To my favourite season
And wondered how would it manifest,
In the cold, when I prey it’s freezing.
The precise nature of stringing the right words
Makes my skin sizzle
So I wait in the dark,
Look out the window, lovingly into the drizzle.
This is a love letter to orange light,
To the sharp, blade like breeze
A celebration pre ritual
For the day when the year leaves.
In the imminent weeks
The front facing windows shall turn brown
How elegant is their decay
The leaves experience, like us, their breakdown.
I love the death of everything
But I do not endeavour to appear sadistic.
It must be respected
And so I am joyful, but not altruistic.
These words write themselves
I could write them forever,
Scrawling in verse that would not change their mortality
Being as free as a bird, myself not ever.
Oh I love it so,
How do I begin to express my gratitude?
Maybe I should plunge myself into the soil
This’ll give me time to brood.
Give it time and it’ll be wonderful,
Lines that’ll be at one with nature
And I’ll return to my window,
Now able to view it as portraiture.
Crawling out of the ground,
The spirit was born where it’s misty and warm
She had the longest hair which, when on the ground, tangled
And begin to scream in a storm, thus was spun, Autumn.