You Me and Poetry Slam
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I sing about my pain without ever breathing a word
The melody carried by the pen in my hand
The paper holding my lyrics and heartache in a crisp white shell
Poetry as a child, I wrote of my thoughts,
And did not realize the destruction it wrought.
I saw the world as black and white,
With scarlet as its natural highlight.
I wrote of the red, the pain and suffering,
A natural, universal power came. Controlled by whispers and held back by mist, Cognitive function--needing relief--sometimes the smallest voices launch the louder ones back into oblivion. Warrior roars;my relationship with the spoken wordis in t
My frigid hands grasped for something,
Anything to survive.
The black tar that covered my throat
Soon welled around my eyes.
You sat there and said I was making up excuses to get away from you.You sat there and said I never wanted you.
May
What are you doing alone these days?
Sighing on windowsills and fogging the pane?
Do you sleep with watchful eye?
I opened my mouth hoping that the words I wanted to say would escape I wanted to say that you hurt meI wanted to say that the gashes on my heart are still there That the still continue to bleed from time to time that the sound of your name still s
I am 9 and discovering poetry
For the first time.
"Hope is a thing with feathers," I read
And imagine the words tripping off the page, plummeting,
A baby bird pushed from the nest. The ground rises up to meet them
With the toss of her mossy hair
she asks,
“So, why are you a poet?”
A breath of indignation releases from
my nostrils.
My mind races with the foolish question
When I'm told how deoxygenated blood Goes in through one side of our heartAnd out the other, carrying life through our veins and capillaries and to our organs
Since the day of my birth,
I was destined for something,
I just didn't know what.
Throughout the years of my exsistance,
I have been searching,
Searching for my purpose.
Being a poet
Is borrowing the sun
Which blankets just half of Earth
And sharing it's warmth with
Someone in the dark.
Being a poet
Is exposing yourself
And all your broken pieces
To those in pain: I sympathize with you.
But for me, my pain no longer bears significance.
I choose, instead of feeling regretful,
to make both fire and ice
and to let them both fuel me;
When I was eleven
I went shopping with
my mother.
It was like weaving
Through a drunken
Maypole, the
ribbons held by Barbies.
Who knew
that the rainbow’s
a lie and ROYGBIV
