'You Me and Poetry Scholarship Slam'

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The words swirl around in my head, Always unable to speak them aloud, Never able to look you in the eye and say what I mean, So I take out my pen and I hope that you understand.  
No.the curtain. is not. justfuckingblue... --
Growing up, my parents encouraged me to act. But looks are important and they said I was fat. They told me if I want to play the lead I’d have to lose weight.
"The sun was an angry little pinhead."   If the body is a temple, mine has been sacked. The sky's cruel torch forgot me on its way across the sky.
When I write, I’m in control When I write, the words are my sword When I write, my heart opens up When I write...   Then writers block hits
poetry makes it easier   the attempt of articulation of the abstract; feelings too unfocused to figure; emotions endlessly endeavoring for expression
To be a poet is to be a thinker A challenger A believer in the magic of our own minds
It's really a lovely image, isn't it: The Lone Poetess, writing boldly, in tune  A world unto herself, a world in her mind. I am not her. I can't build worlds for myself;
Amongst a crowd of people, I am always the one furthest from reaching the sky. In other words, I am short. Petite. Vertically challenged. Believe me,
Tossing and turning and it’s 2:17 AM I can’t sleep with sheets twisted around my limbs stretching and grasping in the dark at the dark and it’s too hot this pillow under my head I turn it over 27 times
  You are my mother I never knew I never seen I never will We live apart You and I One world Two sides
  Alaskan skin in bright Californian sun Summer smiles From one end to another Our time passed And time keeps passing Our memories rearrange themselves Leaves green fade orange Blank spaces and backspaced words Filled with small smiles Like leaves
I write to speak To be heard To live out my dreams   There’s no better way To be understood Than to sew my words like seams
Poetry is my tool for expression and stress relief. Here is my poem which is a debate I have within myself where I claim that Poetry (She) is futile in my depression and preoccupation with the past mistakes.
To me Words have always been unique When people failed to be For me Writing down my thoughts as words, phrases lines, stanzas stories Was easier than
For an amber lady beetle, it’s a challenge to be heard. My hum blends in with the usual buzz of the urban wild. My voice hides beneath blankets of blaring conversation.
Humor's subjective Some will have different tastes Others will be dull.      
Coronado beach Cool water, gorgeous women And always sunny.  
Everyone is brave Until there's an incident Then Fear steers the wheel.
It starts out with Emotions- Emotions turn into Thoughts- And Thoughts into Words- Words turn to Sentences of these Notions-   Sentences on a page As blank and as unadulterated As the canvas
Life is very short It is much like this haiku Short yet compelling.
"Forgive, but do not forget," is a saying as old as time. Ordinary as it may be, it is a powerful message; one that has been forgotten over the years by so many.
Passionate thumping rhythm; Hertz that sway with the simplest of motions; A sound different -yet so similar- to any other.   It is something that can not be replicated-
A poem is just thoughts And my head is full of them   A poem is just words But they mean something   A poem is just a song without music Just a thought written down
There are words inside of me. There are words inside of me that I cannot always put my finger on. They lay in wait, sometimes even when I need them. My tongue stumbles         I grasp at empty darkness
I live the ruff life.I ruff at the neighbors.I ruff at the cool, dry wind that stings my furs.I ruff at the bikers that pass by in blurs.But most of all,I ruff at the cursed UPS truck.
The wheelbarrow fits nearly all their belongings As they walk down dirt roads to their new home. Nothing more than wooden stakes and a tarp, But at least they can call it their own.  
Fears between steps of the everyday walk of high school, Trying to make stepping stones of new beginnings, but between my fear, dreams, and hope 
It was a myth that held me back, a stubborn kid, ready to be "mature". Forget Doctor Seuss, I wanted to go Wilde. I wanted to paint a picture, not say Trees are green,
My heart’s on my sleeve My foot’s in my mouth My ears want to hear music While my head’s in the clouds My visions in the future My legs walking me from the past My temper’s slow to anger
I’m just a kid Always have been, always will be.   From the creative spirit I display To the tests that life has to offer
In a community full of strict words, strict language, strict voices Growing up in the military leaves one with no other choices Expected to grow up fast and be strong When all I wanted was my teddy bear to hold
A grasp on my word only to pierce your flesh. Words made of wood that never rest. I didn’t choose to express my thoughts like this. It just seems to get out with a twist of my wrist.
Hello, old friend, I am calling for you, can you hear? I know I've strayed, but can you save me once more? Against your warnings I've jumped and forgot how to swim.
All my life I had been called imaginative. My parents, relatives, friends, teachers and many others always found my methods of description and such slightly peculiar.
Writing requires thinking. Being, Doing. Following a dream That’s worth pursuing. A task that others said Wasn’t even worth reviewing. But I know what I am doing,
Waking up to your sweet soft Breathing, a melody to  Keep time with my heartbeat   Morning sunbeams treaming through  Illuminating your pale Loveing lipes, the pink of  
When I was surrounded by rain, poetry found me.   When the horizon seemed too destructive, too dark, poetry found me.  
My body convulses, stomach muscles tighten, sides are aching, shuddering with pain.   I cry out; the only time I make a sound.   Unable to stand, I hunch forward.
Painfully shy, an introvert, without many friends A child of divorce, found salvation with a pen Black and blue world, smudged ink on her hands Wrote herself a ticket to faraway dreamlands
Words once swam around my Skin and danced across my Fingers and sung melodies I Couldn't understand   It was wonderful when My teacher told me I could Keep them like
It all starts with a thought Something you can’t get out your mouth You can’t find the words because they are trapped Trapped behind this poisonous tongue
When I was a young age of four, I wanted to understand why the other kids could run faster and l o n g e r than I could. When I was six, I did not know why the big, bad
i didnt actively decide to become a poet and i still dont consider myself one it felt more like falling, like blindly doing something, im still not sure all i know was that i wrote 
I read that words have the power to change us and for the longest time, I refused to believe it.
Im nor impressed or depressed though emptiness fills the void of torturous screams in my head pounding, trying to arise and escape but i stay silent as they float to my thoughts
I was only fourteen when everyone around me started to grow up, For they were passing themselves off as if they were twenty-one, Spending their Friday nights drowning their veins in alcohol,
Poetry is not comfortable like the humming of a mower on an autumn morning, nor is it the sounds of the birds outside my bedroom window.   It always has been 
Ryan Washington July 8th, 2016                                                    
The power of words; the potential of letters, A simple syllable can make things better. Soft, harsh, dull bright, Every polished thought shines a light, On things we hide, on things we expose;
I cannot call myself a poet I can't compare to those who truly know it To Whitman and Brown and Frost and Poe What is a word worth but a way to show My emotions and ideas to the world around me
Gentle were my symphonies,a gift unknown to me.I voiced my sweet catastrophes,but my words were lost at sea."Seven years is too young," They say,for a girl to wonder freeabout her mind in a place
All the thoughts, The thoughts, The thoughts that pile in my head. When the hate, anger, and pain from the world come crashing in. No one listens, No one cares. To hear my words just bothers theirs.
Poetry abuses me, Flirts with me one minute and Abandons me the next. She gives me palaces And then she burns them to the ground.   Poetry taunts me, Hands me jewels and fills
Within a cloud far from the abyss of life  Alone with no where to hide My heart broke my mind froze It was as if time were darkness consuming all light My sweetest smile diguised abhor
Wind was hard and coldly bitten; Sun fails, but still, golden, glimmers. Water’s haughty and so frothing;
I AM GAY AND AFRAID   I am an artist, a writer, a poet, a educator, a curator. I don’t want to be afraid to call myself those things.
Dys go by and agin on the news you here it. Rumpumpum man down, shot by the gun of who should have protected him. There's no protection if your color is dark like chocolate or glowing like Honey.
There is a void between parent and child More of a treacherous rift A raging ocean   As one is prosecuted and tried The other is collapsing Slowly falling under the pressure
I am not a poet, And when I do I try, I put myself down, And give up every time.   I am not a poet, Though I would like to be. I find I can never express My feelings accurately.  
At eight years old I was the most pretentious person my parents knew I spouted Shakespeare with ease and wrote secret love letters to myself When I was nine I forgot that the love letters existed and glued a mask onto my face
I use my words because they define me Scrambled in my brain until paper sets them free I use my words because today, actions lead to manslaughter
I have hopes and dreams. Not to grant me money or fame but they are vibrant passions. A passion that i yearn for, and ache for although it seems to be making a run for it.
Life was difficult trying to cope with people who tried to put me down. With pen and paper I learned to channel their words into something beautiful.
I woke up from a nightmare Drenched in sweat I heard bullets and screams ring through the air "POLICE, PUT DOWN YOUR WEAPON!" "BLACK LIVES MATTER!" As I looked out the window, blood flooded the streets
Thoughts speak louder than words, So they say. Never had I believed it more, As time flew by the day.   As a young child, I spoke and thought of wonders. Books and cleverness,
  The wheels of my bicycle turn Grinding into the trail as if to tell the dirt where it has been The spokes a silver flash in the gathering darkness
Quiet they say, silent I am, But through this writing they will understand. I don't say much but I think a lot. Words dance in my head but that's their hang out spot. I'm scared of judgement when I try to speak out,
The world needs poetry Its a confusing and undescribable thing that no one truly understands  But they still need it Its cold words chipping away at their tough exterior 
  Wrinkled edges and dog-eared pages, Smudges from the swift stroke of a careless hand ― Crispy remnants of a poem spaghetti-stained
 Employ the men who left their homes. Afraid, astray, alone they fight.Return, return, insist the moms.  Frontiers assault and chill the bones.Nor friend nor foe, welcome the light.Employ the men who left their homes.    Avow their dignity and pay
How do you explain a laugh? How do you explain a sigh? How do you explain something that is just a part, A part of what makes you You? A part as indistinguishable from the rest.  
A successful student is eager, yet not always prepared. A successful student shows no fear, and tries to not be scared. A successful student is hard-working, but can stray from the goal.
Grasping for hope,   I befriended a notebook.   Voicing my fears loudly-   It’s become a good listener;   Such a quaint, leather-bound affair.
Despair and loss came one day. I never saw the world seem so gray. I didn't know what else to say. Life seemed so hopeless to my dismay.   I found a door one day by me. A door of hope and mystery.
It’s like something just hit me, I knew it had to be. Like a bolt of lightning, just so spontaneously. My love for writing grew fast. I could write anything I wanted to reflect in the present, future, or past.
What does poetry mean to me? I'll tell you- Poetry is freedom The freedom to express yourself To speak an opinion Through crafted words The freedom to speak art And have it be just as beautiful
I am a story And sometimes that story Cannot be told in prose Or fiction, or in philosophical essays on the struggle of Man's ethics Between the diminishing light And the impending dark.
Poetry What is poetry? Poetry can mean different things to you and me It is not a skill you can pick up on suddenly Or a skill you can be born with
“scoliosis” a word i’d never thought i’d hear conclusions dusted themselves off from the back of my head it felt as if my body betrayed me, off course it veered 
Stop Stop with accusations Against the ones with no defence  Don't show pride  Becuase I see your ignorance  Ignorance towards race towards color gender  and name
There is a girl,   And she is young pretty and bright.   But, she lived with words inside of her, like a parasite.   They could be nice, gentle and loving,   like a mother is to a child.
Sit down ,be quiet, don't look around you're a lady Girls do not play football beacause they will get dirty Sit down, be quiet, don't look around you're a lady
"Why is it that we can have an all girls school, but when we have all boys schools,  it's sexist?" Except, No one's said that. And if they have, There are people who find all girls schools sexist.
She loved the sound of hearing the pencil sharpener run. Sharp as a tac, that’s how she liked her pencil. Putting the pencil to paper, she watched as crumbs of the tip broke, and blew away.
The palms sway and wave at us from up above. Lifeless feet shuffle across the horse trodden bricks of Sevilla Street,
As I touched the powdery texture of its skin.   My hands could not resist the urge to pick the thin ball point with dark black ink.   As my hand and the ink touch its skin it felt as if we were made for each other.
Freedom ----------------------------------------------------------------- For families, friends, and futures- Resilient; your heart remains- Echoing the cries from
My definition of poetry: undefined.
Poetry These Words of Self-Express Poetry Is My Only Therapist I Can Tell You How I Am Feeling, Doing Poetry Came As A Savior Through Rough Times Mom Had Cancer, Father Unemployed
It started with chalk on the sidewalkOn a day when my words were not heardAs I spoke them - so I wrote themDown on the groundFingertips raw as my thoughts sawedBack and forth on the concrete
Frozen. Stuck. Words failing to form. A story too long to focus on. Suddenly, A butterfly thought. Fluttering around before landing on a new paper. The world fallen silent.
I learned that poems didn't have to rhyme I learned that poems didn't have to keep up with time I learned about poems like they were my best friends  I knew how to make them happy or sad
  Where our voice cannot reach Poetry is the bridgework We write what we cannot say out loud And our voices are deafening  
Everyone says your old now That its your time to explore and mature Excuse me, but I am not a scow I am someone who can be easily detoured I am still young and unsure
The only thing my mama ever gave me was the ability to write the things I could not say When her brother was shot six times in the face When cancer claimed her grandmother’s life When she lost full custody of us
A story to tell Made simple Ongoing To empower Inspire Forever Ongoing Love Pain Life Memories All continuous As words As messages Found long ago
I'm tired, please stop. It's late, and I'm starting to hate the sound of the hands on the clock. Counting every minute, every hour That you two fight and bite And tear at each other's hearts.
Trapped , I was stuck in the cages of my ribs, lost in the chambers of voices in my head, all alone. Realizing I was a slave to the idea of breaking free. My mind controlled by fear, my heart controlled 
Help me dream a dreamer’s sleepOne that no one else can keepOne that makes me smile and thinkThe deeper into sleep I sinkTake me back to NeverlandWhere there’s golden grains of sandWhere the mermaids sing and playAnd faries work the day awayWhere
  landing in the sea expecting to drown till everything turns black, swiming into the deapths of the ocean thinking ill see only darkness, looking for death, but seeing life, dreaming about the bad to wake up to the good,
I first started really writing poetry in ninth grade.  They had a poetry slam at my school, and I had some friends who were going so I checked it out.  It was so beautiful, the words they said and how they were said.
At the age of fifteen I lost myself in the cold of a crowded highschool. I didn't know what was cool, I didn't follow those that ruled. Halfway through my freezing freshman year I discovered I wasn't truly lost,
Poetry came into my heart, When my third grade class made our very own poetry books. On certain days, we would write our own poems about anything we loved. Each poem I have read ever since, I still love.
United You Stand- Disciplined; Trained; With crisp Caps- and leaden Boots- Ready to Depart For Battle:   United You Climb- Powerful; Resilient; With glaring Suns-
I travel, Hoping to unravel The mysteries of the island one that speaks with silence   “I’ve travelled there”
I was fourteen years old when Sierra DeMulder and Lacey Roop took the cracking dirt clump that sleeps in my ribcage, and spoon fed it rose water and crushed eggshells.
Reputation, respiration, I breathe within the pen.Divination, exhalation, I bleed within the pen.Degradation, desperation, I need what’s in the pen,To set me free, the lock, the key. I need what’s in the pen.
I like writing poems But poems don't like me. Whenever I write It looks like debri. The words don’t make sense, The timing is Off,
What is it?What is it that I didn't do for youWhat is it that  I didn't take from youWhat is it that  I didn't endure
You Promised Me Forever. Remember?Remember you promised me foreverYou promised me we will be husband  and wifeRemember?
You told me onceThere was no other but meBut you lied to meYou broke my heart into piecesAnd brought tears to my faceWhich you promised you'll never doAll the promises you made to me
You and IDancing to this rythm of oursOur bodies swayed in motionChemistry rising up above Oh darlingHow I love you soAs we have our bodies clinged  togetherEyes locked on one another
Some have been betrayed beforeSome have been heartbroken so many timesSome have seen the bad side of loveI've been in those shoesAnd most of us can relate too
I miss the feel of your skin The velvet appeal leading me to sin Sweet and melancholic, the way you kiss Though, I can only reminisce  You leave a lot. And though you always come back
I have been searching for my true love in all the wrong places, Falling in deep landing face down feeling as if love just isn't my thing, But again and again I trick my hear into beating for someone new,
Dark clouds were once my pupils, Except it only rains as I was hurting, From my frustration, My sorrow, And my lack of faith, I begged for salvation, As the blazing inferno,
If I were to swallow the entire bottle,take them all instead of one, these vacant halls would  remain dead.   If I were to drain myself into the tub, slit my wrists, and watch the blood-
In my earliest memories I am dead My heart as cold as the winter breeze That nipped my fingers When I was too scared to go home My eyes are dull Like erased pencil marks The imprint of
A quiet ding and a soft padding of bare feet On the wooden floor Bathed in sunlight The quiet hush of breath taken together  
You may Shut me up Break my will, Imprison me, just because you disagree with my beliefs.
It is the voice in your head Some have given it a name: Conscience but Mine screams and screams Never turning off.    And so I write to free my cluttered mind to be An empty and calm place
You ever get the feeling as if you may fall  No matter what or who it is  You just get giddy or concerned about falling for something For someone It can be a good  It can be bad
Poetry is a one-way ticket Taking me across oceans  And into the Past   Poetry is a one-way ticket To meet leaders, scholars, people From far way lands From another time
me am i  i could never change me    odd   even if it were forced and bashed yet you, he, she, and them yet you, he, she, and them think me should change    but me  me begs to differ m is inseparable from e e is glued to m m is glued to e m is equa
Scraped from the wombs Of a broken child Screams united with The new and the old Fresh fists clenched Power born A Girl As told by doctors  Only looking skin deep A Boy 
The familiar racing of my heart meant my body was preparing for battle. I built my walls up, brick by brick, to protect my already aching heart. Defenses ready, I heard your sharp footsteps through
I stand      I look the person in the eye I try to speak       My speech, my performance for whoever happens to be listening, memorized ten thousand times over
Compulsions undescribed No outlet for emotions A cage of my own making But I forgot the door   Tick tock Goes the clock Ticking my thoughts away Deeper and deeper inside my cage  
My skin is tan, in the communtiy I'm from things like poetry, the arts, music aren't worth for much. Being a lawyer, doctor, dentist, or nurse is what you need to do
I like saying that poetry is in my blood. My mother is a poet, and I'm proud of this fact. Although I haven't read many of her poems, my mother has shown me her favorite poems and some of her other works. 
All our lives, we have been told to lies. To succeed in life, you must "think outside the box." But... what if thinking is the box? My goodness, what a paradox!  
For depression had overtaken But left me unshaken; As introduced to Robert Frost, I  had not been forsaken.   I took to heart the rhymes of words, And flourished by my thoughts,
A warm light cuddles the plain surface of the wood Plain and simple, it sits there expressionless
The poetry came to me like a strom The topics and the words come to me and everythings just follow together like water and fits like a puzzel Its is easy for me to be able to get words out and to get someone to hear me
We walk in others shadows, and wallow in our defeat. If they can only see. To see . What is it to really see? To look past the makeup,to look past the face, and look through the heart . But how can I see when I don't face their faces.
O Saraswati, seated on a swan Lotus in hand, and clad in white Mother of speech and verse, I salute you in your voice.   Born in the palm of the Mother And raised on her nectar
This happened recently. I don’t know where my dream is. But I can hear it singing Somewhere…   Wop baba lumop a wap bam boom   It sounds so close to me. Should I leave?
The paper screams for me to reunite him with his love. The paper and the pencil, they seem like the perfect pair. Who am I to keep them apart? I fill his empty lines with dark letters,
There was always something inside longing to be let out, A prisoner, confined behind a ribcage A voice silenced keeping close everything pushed down deep. Speak!
Blinding Lights- Intercoms screeching- a Plenum of Chaos- Amorphous assort;   The accouters on my back- which I have worn Three Suns now- have become Uncomfortable- Stiff and Stale-
I used to write about God In all his glory I praised him through poetry I used to write about every beautiful thing This life had to offer And it made you so happy But I gave it all up
Poetry one day came knocking at my door, And I wasn’t ready or anything. Reluctantly I let it in, for It was nothing, just a fling.   And I wasn’t ready or anything My pen moved to tell words unspoken
Maybe I will heal myself. Perhaps it could be me, or else, Maybe it will be the paper and the pen That could finally fill me with zen.
Spring- A time in which All is renewed- When Life is born-   And the Flowers of the Cherry Blossoms Bloom- Vibrant Shades of Blushing Hues-   Like those that Grace
The clock- moving forward with the world- The Gears rotating with a simple click   'Tock-  Tock-'   The hand flicks- Bit-by-Bit- Inch-by-Inch- Closer and Closer;
Eyes Staring blankly- Skin cold and milky- rose-tinted lips always smiling-   You are Beautiful; You are Treasured; You are Pampered;   H.O.W.E.V.E.R.--  
I write to let people know the real me, not the one their minds made me up to be. If you really knew me, you'd know after my parents divorce ,my mother became mentally abusive. 
When it rains, it pours - I never understood the meaning before. A few months ago when embarking on an Adventure of a Lifetime, I figured it out on night two of nine.
We have been conditioned, molded, into believing that everyone is to be the same. Like cookie dough cut repeadeatly by the same cookie cutter. Roll out, cut. Roll out, cut. Over and over again.
Writing, for me was always a form of controversy. I am set to be a doctor, a researcher, a doer of good.   But books and language set me apart. Gave me wings, let me escape.
When my stories were too bare, When my letters were too long, When all my thoughts were a-tumble, My poetry was there.   When rhyming was appealing, When friends would not hush up,
under my spine, the tiniest voice mumbles that it is okay for me to move on. catharsis at 1800 hours words ease the ache yet make the sting worse
The same time, The same day, a yellow spiral journal. I was in the 4th grade; We had to write something anything for a grade. I put pencil to paper and I wrote and I wrote.
I wrote my first poem when I was six. It was about how grandmas smell like vanilla and cinnamon sticks. When I was ten, I wrote about my mother's love and how my friend was 
I'm nine years old  and what do you know?  I got these feelings,  how do I show?  At the computer I sit and out my fingers, poems flow. One, then two, four, five, ten,
You were the habit I had to learn to quit because in your perfect world I was a terrible fit. You saw me as a game, a challenge, a dare, you wanted to see how much you could get me to care.
I am not good at feeling. Courage was never my strong suit. Right now, I am working on healing.  People know me as the “mute”.  
tap. tap. tap. tap. pen against paper. thoughts against head.   the question swirls around and around and around like a beginning with no be.  
Rain- Persistent and cold- Grays this world of Concrete and Metal  that You and I live in.   It starts out small-  a fine falling mist- Before it quickly grows
            I try, try, and try though I’ve failed too much             Try to take it slow, there’s no need to rush             Rest and relax, you earned every bit
You don't know me You don't know the first thing about me You think I'm a good student? Hah! You think I have friends? Hah! You think I'm happy! Hah! Hah! You don't know me at all  
True love’s kiss, first experienced through written words. First of all kinds memorialized in the pages between her fingers.   At home with the ink stained paper.
A fat black girl in a skinny white woman’s world That’s where it all started Looking to be accepted into society’s standards Never finding myself aimed towards the target 12th grade…
    Head so full of thoughts,  Fingers throbbing, leaping off the keyboard, Escape, Let your words lead me,
School brought you to me. And out of the blue: I discovered my skill and Uncovered a passion true.  
I remember when you would hold me close And whisper how much you love me I remember when he gave you a rose And it filled you with such glee
I was alone, Cramped in my mind, Displaced, Unheard, Seeking some attention i probably didnt deserve, I was alone with a pen, a piece of paper and my thoughts, Swarming, Devouring Me, 
"Be strong, work hard" is what they tell you when they cannot help you The world is a big place but I never got a VIP pass I will work twice as hard and struggle still more To get half as much, if that
She was marked from birth, Peculiar marks on her hands. One was dark, The other light. One hand broke toys, The other repaired. One hand pushed her mother away,
Cardboard boxes, packing paper, Tape to hold it all in place. Carpet indents in sets of four Where furniture used to fill the space.  
Blinded,  Bound, By nothing (to define it).   Colors fell away As quickly as the Aspen leaves, Who'd played in costumes of death for a day.   Words, they grasped
Putting pen to paper she bleeds, Words flowing fast and free. Feelings once tangled up Now unwinding. All the anger, All the pain. Her heartache, Her grief, Her loneliness.
I was simply in it for the thrill I was nimbly in it with a quill Every time i had chills Every rhyme had skill Honey I would dream at times Of a pocket full of money and a heart full of dimes
Silent as the desert nightThe cacti stood alone,Wading through the sands of children,Plac
darkness, sadness, lust, and angst bleed out from inside me through the ink on the page
There grew a tree in my yard, Planted by Eve, Roots seven years deep.   Then I came.   There grew a tree in my yard, The humble abode,
Happy Wanting to convey that taste of childhood...bliss, Before it slips Through My hands gripping the bars-
Look outside your lovely white laced window pane Hike up that towering mountain in your world’s brightest sunrise Let the morning air lift your saddening night’s lost war  
Gagged and bound by what’s around me Heightened senses, yet couldn’t see Heart beating so fast my ribs could break The nausea making my stomach ache Alone in the corner with no salvation in sight
Anguish is plastered on her face Like fragile, etched glass. She smiles and pushes herself, But is surrounded with frightful fragments
It is large, round, and yellow; just like the sun.So you called it a sunflower.Could you please explain your wisdomto the scientistswho name things so small they can't be seenwith names so long I cannot spell them.I think grades across the US woul
i never expected my life to be taken over by words rhymes stanzas  i logged into the computer i typed my fingers dancing pressing buttons forming words rhymes stanzas endless metaphors for pain love tragedy my thoughts swimming in my blood  pourin
At seventeen I work two damn jobs,At seventeen I am paying on my own car,At seventeen I think I am an adult,All at seventeen.  
What mystery pervades a well! –– Emily’s supposition. And I, like the others, Could only but raptly listen.  
Off on an adventure Aboard this ship Against the waves  During a horrid storm Among the saliors Near land I pray  But the captain says we're far  Until this storm passes We wil not go
moonscape . rot and genesis come and come neither comfort nor fear follows the fleshy pink mind soon and soon full , now empty, black infinite
I’ve spent countless hours of my life thinking and brooding, Considering the complexities of my past relations. And it is during these times, with my emotions moving, Which cause more oft than not unsightly ruminations.
Tears freely flowing, constantly broken. I use a pen to stitch up my soul.
I am a poet. I write to have my words take reign over your attention and speak to you without ever physically being in front of you. I write to make each word bore into your eyes
it was like clay: a keyboard. molded everything she wanted to say. when she was bored had a desire to record needed a sword or a place to explore poems were that medium.
What? You want input from me?! Oh, Just have me organize reality. Quicker thinking. I can't afford to be lazy. Which words work? What do you need to hear from me? This is it.
Gnarled fingers folded in silent stillness Never again to interlock with another’s hand Enchanting eyes closed in blatant finality Never again to twinkle with adventure
The night is black as the Dead Sea, As waves of emotions crash over me. The stars glisten in the skies above, As I wish for only a taste of love.   To a dear poet I once knew,
Poetry. Rhythm woven from strings of metaphor displaying everyday occurences  as vibrantly as a marquee.  Words painting pastels with splashes of deep heavy reds and bright sunshiny yellows.
Pain held on for years to come Questioning what's been done Completely tired of feeling incomplete My happiness is something that just can't be So I write, I write to release the pain
When I was little I awoken from a nap. There  I heard some odd and unusual  yap. I glared  out the window and what do I  see, my uncle and my brother  doing something  strange, it seemed to me.
Shel Silvestein insied poety into my life, Without those books I would be in strife. The poems he wrote filled me with joy, It wa almost like having a toy.   Shel Silverstein was funny and cool,
Through tears and fears you've held me near in sleepless nights and morose days you wisk me away   with trails of ink you lead the way and help me think of better times
Poetry is my blood, and tears, and my everything, stained inky black and swirled on paper. Poetry isn’t simply a way to say things beautifully,
Broken girl meets broken poet,Pieces stick back together,Open hearts speak louder than actions,Hands may not have touched, But fate
Ink flowing, forming into images of many meanings, Were never meant for someone as I. The liquid never seemed appealing As its grotesque limbs crawled into the cracks on my skin,
My corset of secrets Is growing tighter What was once a hug Has become a noose Tight Too tight I can't B   R   E   A   T   H   E   Where some wear their corset
To write a poem Is to release your feelings, And thus become free.
Purest Poetry in motion Is observing life’s commotion Then finding words Smooth as lotion. Poetry restores a cracked surface, And reunites me with my purpose. 
You may want to scream, Shout, Cry. Though you can't, Not anymore. Instead, you pick up a pen, You write out your frustration. Let your voice scream, Shout, And cry for you.
I laughed with Billy Crystal Because I too am a modern day cowboy. Armed with a pen and paper I wrangle the words, Capture their essence, And affix them to the page.
Up again, Awake and aching for a change, A shift in the vicious circle, Where life takes all prisoner, And leaves nothing but stones  In the ground. Don't make a sound
The love of the game can bring you all the fame, but it can tear you down and bring you shame. When that shame comes, you must learn to deal. If you cannot deal, then you will not heal.
Becoming a poet was kind of an accident Like everything, I bumbled and fumbled And somehow landed where I am now. It started with stumbling over a meeting In the library with a couple people I knew  
Look at me Look at my eyes Look at my nose Look at my thighs Look at my lips Look at my color They all have one thing in common
I was always an artist first but words were just a new kind of paint   Not so much a visual medium  and not so much music but something in between   With words dripping out of my fingers
Friends come and go  Buh the feelings never change  our eyes only open  In the midst of all our pain  We're so focused on ourselves 
I hover over the paper, back arched I force myself to feel Anger Love Happiness I make myself feel everything I don’t know why But I have to write Writing is freedom
It hurts, we know. You just want this pain to go. You often cry, we can tell. We all know you’re going through h*ll We wish we could stop it, but where do we start? Perhaps what is needed is a change of heart
My skin was chilled, yet I was warmed.
It all started a long time ago. It happened so suddenly that I didn't even know. With my pen in hand, I was finally able to understand. I had the power to conquer all with something so small.
I don't do well with groups and crowds, they make me want to scream out loud, but when I write, I make it right, I find the voice I never had, and though some may see it sad, I like it better this way.
For most people smogs are an unusual sight But for me it's a part of my usual plight It's air so dense it can choke you Too thick to see your way through Easy to get lost; not easy to be found
My closest friends are the pen and the page. They take my rage and the war waged on my Sanity The conflict brought by our no longer use of Humanity. How could it be that we can not see the
Travyvon Martin and Mike Brown helped me find poetry, Overwhelming emotions controlled me and took hold of me, Until I wrote my thougthts out for the world to see, A pathway to discover the inner me,
Drifting in a languid landof singing prairies and crystalline lakes,I wander toward a jeweled tree, radiant sapphire and ruby in a halcyon dream. 
Now I know writing songs doesn't seem like poetry to some "Poetry rhymes, poetry comes from the heart," they say And they're right But the beautiful thing about poetry is that it doesn't have to rhyme like a song
I hear the screams I smell the breath I feel the spit It is dark but there is no doubt It is there It gets louder and louder and louder I open my eyes and see different darkness Then it stops
Why do I write poetry? It allows you to set your mind free. It can tell a story in pages, or merely in a few sentences.  Whatever style you desire, free verse or a strict rhythm. Poems can be about anything and anyone.
It's growing. Bigger, nastier, uglier. And it's sore as hell. I dived head first into a brown bottle, even had ice but, it still continued to swell. Self medicating, personal antidotes,
Why Poetry?   Why poetry, they say? Maybe it's because I don't know how to formulate these thoughts into full sentences. Cause twenty tabs are open; That one song won't stop playing.
What can I say out loud for all to hear? About the words that I hold dear. For someone that has always been quiet and shy, It is hard to tell you why.
Poetry is a release, Poetry is fun, Make sure you stay creative!
My Life as a Poet By: Destini Johnson Poetry is like DNA it's embedded into you. It’s like a song that you never forget. Poetry is how I express myself. Poerty is how I release stress off myself.
I woke up today To see my life fade away All my feelings would dissappear To be replaced by fear.   It's the lack of change that hurts the most A monatonous life might as well be a ghost
There were words to say but no one to care. At the end of the day, I couldn't see anyone there. Life had me down, at times it was killer. The old me wasn't around, couldn't even feel her.  
I see the world Through lenses sprinkled with hazelnut and almond  that magnify the beings that surround me.    Sometimes, my mind gets too scrambled: Too caught up in crying children and chopped-down trees,
As inhalation occurs, your mind is scanning, panning, and planning High pitch squeals and commotion amongst people occur Your fingers itch and twitch and launch for your pocket
I have been betrayed by my mouth Speaking out loud seemed trite. Ideas ran deep through my head like a river down south,
“Take this class,” says my advisor. Poetry? I think. Ugh, fine. More reading stuff I can’t understand— How exciting.   First day of class. Four anthologies—that’s too much! But
Thoughts that float within my mind Hints of ideas I dream up at night Emotional moments and far away dreams Come to existence within poetry. How do I explain the darkness
Darkness surrounded her, day and night. Insidious, alluring, luminescent flowers floating here and there,  Offering counterfeit promises of peace.  Sickingly sweet voices called out to her, 
Your combat boots, The roots of our future, They say it's too early, But for us we'll never know, Yea, I guess I'm too young, But if you ask I'll say yes, Two months, four, and six now,
Pen to paper, thoughts start to mound; I'm paralyzed in their screaming sound. They circle, again, circle around and push me deeper until I'm drowned.   I listen to their ceaseless pound
Through tangled thoughts festering about, I am able to create something without doubt Of what others may think of my mangled mind Because of what I write is what I feel on the inside.  
I still remember when I saw you Sweat so sweet and eyes so bright My heart froze instantly at your sight But my head knew what you would do   I still remember when you said my name
Well she was the girl everyone expected her to be. Nice, soft, quietly speaking.       Never made a sound.
Somewhere along the way I fell in love, With words and rhyme and metaphor.   It was somewhere between reading Robert Frost and singing Emily Dickinson.
The word Poetry Makes me laugh. I do not know how to make an entry, Nor do I know where it ends on my behalf. I thought I'd be like them, Those people that taught themselves how to write.
The swinging of the swing hits the mental wall that hold in feelings and all at once slowly it breaks leaking color leaking words leaking feeling leaking poems
At the playground the kids climb up the slide, glide down the pole, dart across the bridge, and drop off the monkey bars while playing zombie tag.
Sometimes I sit at my window and stare at the world beyond, wondering how we will remember each moment as time flies. I ask, I dream, I ponder, but silence is the only response.
Imagine having everyone know your Deepest thoughts Darkest moments All your mistakes   That’s what they do They pour their heart out And leave it all on the page  
Covered by doubt And cradled by love.   Slapped by reality And stitched by expectations   Caged by his voice Swallowed by his hurt.   Running on a track
I ran through the wood, snapping moldy twigs and low-living branches.   The wind weathered at my shoulders, carrying the cries of the rustling leaves, the mellow wailing
I am able to escaoe into realities unknown to me. I am able to imitate the emotions written. I am able to lie to myself yet tell the truth to others I am able to create fantasy and reality
  Emily She could not stop for Death Neither could I She could not let go Neither could I She tought me "be who I be" I will be me She told me "see what I see" I see
Breath of soul, letters untold; Expression of confessions that can't be spoken, Yet no one knew that I was  so broken. I write to say things better left unsaid, And bring about life inside me that was  once dead.
The cage is open My mind is free The shackles have fallen I can finally be me This pen is my sword This paper is my shield My life has been changed I am now free Free to breathe 
They hung their words in the air with colors tangible  "look" I looked and read the world colors breathing air  breathing colors books exploded air and I  breathed "look"
Meaning. Fills life and keeps it away from despair, And darkness that constantly fills the damp air. Sometimes the meanings infront of your face, And sometimes the meaning will be found in an unknown place.
'Tis what exudes from my melancholic oppression  A despondency self induced by my reprieve of joy As it leaves my being, it sets me free   Free from my own expressive suppression
When I write, I see me The true me, the real me I don't see a writer with a pen and paper I see Van Gogh with painting a self portrait Or a young girl with no makeup looking in the mirror
When I look at the world around me, I see a world full of restraints; restraints placed on me by my parents, restraints placed on me by the law, restraints from finances, restraints from my boss,
You, me, and poetry.. Words along a page, rhythm crooked and spaced Did she mean to rhym or is that word just misplaced To me poetry is a hidden emotional pursuit 
Secluded in my mind, there are thoughts of a time, A time where I didn't worry. A time thoughts of evil, frustration, and scrutiny had me feeling blurry; So I scurried,
I haven’t written a poem in two months,and what that means isthis body of mine suffers from inundation,like the Nile I sw
At one point in my life,  I lacked things to do, So I pulled out an old journal, And that I went through,  I read the poetry I used to write and figured, that if back then I could write,
Poetry is a song A quiet melody in the throng A low note in the noise that makes us strong.   Poetry is a beat A steady cadence in the fleet A common surge in the heart that makes us meet.  
Unwilling, Unforgiving, Everlasting, Darkness exhumed my body Intoxicated by nothing, A monster overcame Survived by nothingness, Indisposed   Time corroding mortality,
I remember the day When I had a lot to say Not yet knowing Jesus as the Way So my first thought wasn’t to pray   I didn’t know God was real And He could help me with the way I feel
I am from the stars of red that streak across the flag And I am from the crimson stripes that ran down the King's back.   I am from the dirt and mold- the beginning of the end.
Let me write to you the injustices When my mother’s words resound in my head
A young girl with wounds to mend --No stitches. No bandaids. Only a pen. "What does this do?" she asked herself.She picked it up then retrieved paper from the shelf.
Ink spots litter my fingers; I see the beauty of words, Words, In jumbled messes, scattered all over what, once, used to be a blank sheet.
  I heard it once and stole my soul, Its deep, soft melody felt like home. I tried and close my eyes,
My dream is my own It is my own to control My own path to create My goal to become It can't be altered by my mother It can't be decided by my father Friends and people all around
THE darkness engluffed me I wanted to cut... but a voice inside said "I could not" so I reached for the paper and found a blue pen that is where my stroy began.   I wrote to fill a void.
Poetry is the sound of a slaming doorEchoed through dark skies and dim street lightsThe sound that says "You are aloneBut someone is always watching" Poetry is the cold grip of a brothers  hand
Poetry is the sound of a slaming doorEchoed through dark skies and dim street lightsThe sound that says "You are aloneBut someone is always there" Poetry is the cold grip of a brothers  hand
Some lessons in school Come and go Others however Help you to reap and sow   Poetry is a tool that Has many uses The reason I love it, it helps Cope with life’s abuses  
I was 8 years old the first time I decided that I liked when my words had a little bit of rhyme But when I was 8 years old I also really liked dinosaurs  
Poetry will always be my first love, No matter how great I become in math, science, history, There is always a place in my heart for the art of words,  
it was innocence nursery rhymes  read as we fell asleep   cinquains, haikus A, B, A, B, C projects typed  fresh from a word document  prompts and clear curricula
You, You are like the fireflies in the summer, Always lighting up when I’m not around. Taunting me with your height and the way you reach for the sky.   Me, I am like a blade of grass.
You want to know how I got these scars? I swallowed my arrogance, but little did I know it would claw its way back up my throat and into my mouth, cutting off every cry for help I could’ve managed.
Saturday morning again, and the bees are wanting to settle into our c-l-a-v-i-c-l-e-s.
Writing is a passion, One that I have with much haste. and compassion.   If I could,  I would write every morning, anything I would, poems, stories, scripts, adorning.  
Life gave me the motions but without the vibrations Melancholy attacked and my soul was in constant isolation Life was a chess board and my king was checkmated You stay silent and tell no one assuming they never related
She with the lion's mane- She with her head in the clouds had always been one to suppress her thoughts in hopes to just fade in the crowds.   As she grew, as she learned
Music. Poetry with notes. But isn't poetry already Musical Lyrical Spiritual Beautiful Beautiful. What is beauty? Is it you? Is it me? Is it humanity?
Depression is nothing more than a blackened room In the middle, a small candle, penetrates the gloom But I'm on the far side, stuck in my bed I can't move with all these demons screaming in my head
The chaos inside me churns- the noise, the pain, the frustration. A blank page, a sharpened pencil are so enticing. The words flow from my mind, spill on to the paper. Rough around the edges,
When I write, I am loud The clicking of the keys and scratching of the bleeding pen is louder than the thunder and the tigers and the rain and the righteousness The screams I can’t get out
When my hands hurt from writing so long, Burning from quickly writing down thoughts, Creating every feeling onto paper, Not able to stop expressing my feelings The only way I knew how to.  
 A wasted death,one I did not believe.  But Death alas, I had received.  The darkness came and did deceive,  A darkness devil, all conceived.  On troubled thoughts that I
A man lie alone in bed, night after night, as death whispers in the ear to his right An angel choir sings softly, in the ear to his left, Until they fought in the middle because that's where they met.
Your playing. your mocking it echos through the room Where we once made love, it's now making dust Your smiles, your laughs will nver vanish from my heart Because your failures, I eased
My mindset is a thunderstorm. In the darkness I am lost and blinded by a storm cloud. There is, however, some hope for this natural disaster.  
So she thought she was popular.  She was kind, she was funny.  So she thought.    So they thought she was stupid She was fat, and she was trying to be what she is not.  She they thought.  
We have been best friends since second grade Now it’s the end of our freshman year I don’t understand It’s like you replaced me With words on a screen You make me want to scream
I don’t need their hypocrisy Nor their drugs Or more therapy All I need is for someone to free me from this hell I'm living This chaos erupting from inside of me as my inner demons try to chain me down.
The cello sings me to sleep The saddest, most beautiful voice I've ever heard Notes carefully composed into a tragedy that floats through the room with ease It lulls me into oblivion
Although the white chickens have run their course, the lilacs have regrown, and the spear-arm days have passed by, the flowers of today are still in tune.  
You, me, go? My english is broken english Like a snail trying to reach its destination Like a baby has spoken its first word I'm not a perfection or a pro.    Nowhere to express,
It comes as suddenly as a cool gust of breeze. All at once I'm overwhelmed with nerves. Soothed by the dripping hum of the honey bees. Cradled by mother nature's curves.
This is my first language, and the only one I truly understand. My mind is a deep and vast canvas that can never be filled. A black hole. I write because it is the only thing I'll ever know. Oblivious.
It's not just pen and paper and words on a page.  It's freeing your heart from its barbed wire cage.  It's the feeling you get when you can finally breathe after drowning for years
Poetry What does it mean Words… rhythm… flow Yes you guess I express What I attest to… thee You see I made a decision Way back when To tell a story Through feelings
I see a blank paperand feel sorry for it.It is a zombie;Lifeless, unconcious, and hungry for brains.
With mind full, ready to burst,Pencil poised and ready.Once was hungry, filled with thirst,but now is sure and steady. Thoughts and ideas pour in and flow out.The dots all connecting.Of my efforts, there can be no doubt.My voice clearly projecting
Write write write
Will and Way  
p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; } In third grade, They handed me a poetry book And I found it terribly boring. I was a child of prose, reading stories of adventures And faraway lands.
A heavy heart and broken smile is all I have to offer My weary eyes and sensitive ears hide from the truth The sweet taste of fear, the putrid scent of peace The soft touch of hostility, the scandalous sound of grace
There was a time when only two things kept me afloat.Music, and Poetry.When daddy was downing shots and doing drugs,And the lawyers wouldn't believe mom.When daddy's new wife beat my little sister with a brush,
This easy going softhearted girl, smiles as though shes fine as ever. Listening to the screams of the innocent children, she pertends that everything is alright.   This easy going softhearted girl,
Words she never spoke, Creep in her head. Pound in her heart. Scream in her mind. Wanting to be heard. But with her lips shut, Her mind damaged, And her heart pained;
Words They can break one down or build one up If written correctly one can spin a tale of wonder and peace Words can be used to set people free  An outlet for pain, frustration, and loneliness
There is a freedom that comes with the pen. The scribbles across the page Create mountains and rivers of emotion Lethal as a paintbrush. Words are my paints. Scribble, scribble, scribble.  
Building up and drowning me these emotions I need to breathe Yet Discouraging and suffocating my emotions these people I need to breathe Still
Why poetry? I guess it's for those rainy days when you've got sunshine in your heart. I guess it's for those sunny days when you've got thunderstorms in your head. Poetry is for giving yourself to someone else.
Poetry to me Is a way to express myself  Within the Ink of a Pen, the Lines of a paper. It amazes me, how much I can fit in one sheet of paper In just a few words, or a lot And how much feeling I can convey 
It started with that movie.  That one with Morgan Freeman. As the opening credits rolled in,  that voice came into my ears.    Like soft grating gravel.  Invictus. 
When things get tough and I don't know what to do  I pick up a piece of paper and a pen, too My thoughts and feelings glide across the page as my pen does, Others say talk it out, but I know that I must
Poetry. What is Poetry, they ask? Is it like the ocean, how it flows? How you can hear the waves crash? Or like the television, visualizing everything outside of your home?
There is a moment, when a spark thunders down, when all I need is a glass and no sound.The first moment like it, which no one could predict, was, for me, when everything clicked.
I can’t be me So am I not free? I want to reach the sun And show everyone how it is done But, I am not free Therefore, I am not me I want to be a burning star
Cancer came like a shadow     One day I woke up and it was sitting on my couch     It had been watching me all night     Staring silently, speaking slowly.     Waiting for the moment when I would realize its presence.
I cried for weeks. Couldn't seem to find the energy, didn't know how pain could become something, until I used it as my bandaid and beneath it bloomed poetry. We tell ourselves to feel less
There is a rhyme and reason A plan and a time But, sometimes, nothing comes together The words don't make sense The lines become blurred And I'm left to wonder what it's worth
We've been taught to hide behind prose So that no matter what the words say nobody truly knows What's going through our heads Ever hour until we finally turn in to our beds.
some people strike oil when they dig deep for me it was words each time a drill bit hit me, bored a hole in my soul with unkind words, unwant, I wrote, to have some form of pain that
Today as I went about my Saturday ritual of housekeeping, I found my lost love for the laundry and the orange peel therein And again at midday for the sanitized scent of the dishwasher
Words slapped me in the face With their crimson fury Without hesitation I let them envelop me Watering myself in a shower of emotion
Poetry is Past present future Was Will be Past present future As some one with few talents Poetry is my Past present future   Past A little girl Alone
Sometimes You find yourself asking the question: Was it me? Sometimes You wonder if it could've gone differently Was it me?
It started with a phone call. November of 2013 - I have a best friend from back home - Dayton, Texas Her name is Jordan. Jordan got a new neighbor
Drugs, weapons, and poverty from here to there As a kid you only come up for air Fighting girls released some tension But everydays a struggle not to mention You can yell, scream, cry but it doesn't make it better
Reality is somewhere I can never be free. Its where you keep me from being me. I’d give almost anything to be free. I’m only human, what do you expect from me? I’ll never be free.
So many feelings I just couldn't get out of my head So many words that were ending up unsaid They were bottled up inside me and I was ready to explode
I speak of the masks I hide behind. It's not just me-- it's everyone. It's anyone who wants to be accepted for once in his or her life. I speak of the boy who came home crying
Vicious. like nothing ever before. Cries of help echoing through the streets as she taken. Abused. Forgotten. Every last right stripped away. No one knew where he took her.
Poetry means expression, Creation of a better world, A chance to be myself. In a world as constricting as this one, Poetry is an escape,
Poetry is being able to step out of the spotlight you involuntarily occupy 24/7. It's what allows a 6'4", 315 pound young man be himself instead of what everyone expects him to be. 
sad times are hard comfort is needed we wish for that soft pillow to cry into for that strong shoulder   paper can be your pillow pen can be your shoulder   we read to understand to hope one feels the way we do opening a book to get assurance that
The written word never seemed meant for me. Lines and dots were all I could see. But then my Mother would read to me every night. And soon I wanted to also read and write. Books alone could open any door.
  She could hear me dry heaving Pens and needles That my aching chest was Bleeding   The blood Red, black, and blue Ink From my heart and Eyes Gripping onto the edge
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be astronaut. And a ballerina. And a movie star. And the president. I imagine we all wanted these things at one time or another during our childhoods.
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