Slam poetryWhat is this, Slam Poetry? An excuse to scream and get angry, vent your anxiety into profanities, hide your lies behind a microphone stand? Your attempts at literacy played with a back beat, be careful what you pass off as poetry.
Angsty limerick with less precision than a drunk mans hand at darts. Tell us your story about a man in his forties, who didn't know your name, but knew the colors up your skirt.
Remind us of the time when in your pre pubescent mind, the guy you used to sit behind, meant something by that valentine, so you undressed and tried to play it off as "all his fault" He wont remember you, but you still claim he broke your heart.
These irrelevant tangents have no depth to them. No demands on your intelligence, your rhyming your text messages. Your lack of relevance may impress the masses, yeah, Obama, Israeli, Jesus. You are NOTHING but your references. Broadcasting sexual preferences, minority status, political correctness. Politics are not a[valid] substitute for sub
Nursery Rhymesmary had a little lamb
it's fleece as white as snow
it's mind so pure, so light and clean
just like the soul below.
father had a little girl
her soul was cold and black
she hates the lamb for being pure
and stabbed it in the back.
father had a troubled child
it's hands were cold and red
the blood of mary's little lamb
lies on my hands instead.
hannah has a straight jacket
its colour white as snow
and everywhere that hannah went
her meds were sure to go.
My GenerationThat Generation, their generation, our parents and the people on TV, they're always saying, "Children are our future, yes, it's your generation that really matters, you who are going to fix everything."
Fast forward to this generation, My Generation, and sure, we're going to fix everything. We're post-X, all of the drugs and none of the values; black kids shouting racist every time something doesn't go their way and white kids running to mommy and daddy so they don't have to deal with their own problems. Every kid beyond the age of seven has a cell phone laptop x-box, because who needs real friends when you have... Contacts? We're a soft generation, taking offense at every conceived wrong, but note this: only when it happens to Us. We defend our integrity and then run to the bathroom for a quick joint or injection, won't even try to half-ass anything, much less aim for perfection, that is, unless mom and dad say so. No one does anything for themselves anymore, everything
SLAMAt a young age,
I had to learn to dodge stones,
grow angry scales
along innocent freckled skin,
and open my eyes to a world not quite ready
to hear this tigress's voice.
Speaking in tongues to those paid too listen-
of fairytale wars, battle scars,
and the many linoleum squares I counted
day in and day out. I became mute.
Escaping through rabbit holes and back alleys
into a world of ink and worthy paper cuts.
[ I wear these
like a fucking
fashion statement! ]
And this goes out to you-
The Eden snakes, you dead-eyed demons:
It is you that keep me up at night,
weighing down these artist fingers-
IT IS YOU I WILL SLAM AT AN OPEN MIC NIGHT!
I do have a life worth writing about.
Melody in My MindShhh...
Do you hear it?
voice of street,
hearts that beat
Rhythm set free:
one two three
one two three
hear the song
dance with me
There's melody in my mind
Magical melody, murmuring, moody
Musical mystical moving melody
There's melody in my mind
I'll tell you a secret.
I cannot sing.
Imagine that feeling.
Those tones frozen between your mind and mouth, that melody you can't express.
Imagine one of those songs that give you goosebumps, that clutch your heart and make you cry "Yes! Yes, that's it!"
Imagine you want to share it with everyone... but can't.
When you try to repeat the melody, it is off and quavers and screeches like nails on the board.
There's melody in my mind, and it wants to be heard, to be set free.
And so I paint.
The colors are my symphony.
I sound the violins of sky-blue, the lutes of green and drums of violet.
And so I write.
The words on pape
SwitzerlandxReader: Neutrality SucksWorld Conferences officially sucked. Or, at least without your best friend Liechtenstein there, they did. Fortunately for you, her handsome older brother and the person you had a huge crush on always attended every single one dutifully. He didn't appear to be particularly interested in you, although he never shot at you when you crossed his lawn.
You assumed this was because you were Liechtenstein's friend.
"Dudes, let's get this meeting started!" America yelled obnoxiously from the head of the giant meeting table. You noticed Switzerland rolling his bright green eyes, and stifled a small giggle.
"Sit down and shut up, America." England sighed with irritation evident in his accented voice.
"What? Why?" The younger nation whined, and you burst out laughing.
Fortunately for you, Germany's bellow of "Everybody shut up!" ensured that nobody heard you sniggering away.
"Kesesese, let's just all sit down and drink beer." A voice cackled from the ceiling. Everyone glanced up to see Prussia pee
Pageant Child SoldierAnd she says to me-
Darling, you're so pretty,
you should be a model.
All of the make-up brands would want your beauty.
And I look at her features-
A rounded face that's framed so perfectly by "nappy" black hair,
and bright, brown eyes that stare at me with envy and admiration.
And I'm trying to contain my laughter,
because we both know how that statement is a total lie.
Make up brands-
They all want the same thing:
Beautiful, natural, wonderful
They will take the most beautiful women out there,
and mold them like clay that smells of preservatives and empty promises of social acceptance and love.
Those women become models,
and, in the world of fashion, model is Latin for
Skinny female robot that makes money.
The magazines don't want beauty.
They want pretty faces
that are easy to edit with Photoshop.
They want lipstick smeared across dollar bills.
They want mascara lining the twitching fingers that wrap a
BullyingEvery single one of us is different.
Different heights, different faces, different eyes, different personalities, and different stories.
There is no such thing as normal.
To discriminate and bully the 'weak' is a sign of weakness in itself.
A sign that the bully themselves have been pushed too far, been through too much.
A bully is weak, fragile, lonely.
They don't have true friends.
Nobody to turn to in the dark times.
So next time the bully confronts you after school, you think to yourself, who is the stronger person?