performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Nobody Has Your Back Like Your Mama
When the world turns cold and friends walk away, When night feels longer than the day— There’s one soft voice that still believes, One pair of arms that never leaves. She’s the quiet strength behind your fight, The steady hand that holds you tight. When dreams collapse and plans fall through, She whispers, “Child, I still see you.” She gave you life, but more than that, She stood you up when you fell flat. Through every scar and every fear, Her love remained—unchanged, sincere. Others may come, then drift apart, But she’s the rhythm in your heart. She knows your silence, hears your tone— Even when you feel alone. So lift your head when life gets rough, Her faith in you is strong enough. No matter how far off you roam, Her love will always call you home. Because when all else fades to black, Nobody has your precious back— Like your mama. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
Your Silence Will Protect You
You bite your tongue and dim your flame, Afraid they'll judge, afraid of shame. You hold your thoughts behind closed eyes, And wrap your truth in quiet lies. The world is loud with pointed blame, So silence shields you from the flame. No questions asked, no heart laid bare, No wounds exposed, no soul to care. But silence, love, is not a wall— It's just a pause before the fall. A buried scream, a soft retreat, A truce declared in self-defeat. Will silence stop the ache inside? Or teach the tears they must not slide? The world won’t see what you don’t show— And pain, when hidden, learns to grow. Speak softly if you must, or loud— But let your voice cut through the cloud. For silence may protect your face— But never fills the empty space. So speak your name. Speak what you feel. For only truth has power to heal. And though your silence guards your soul, Your voice is what will make you whole. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
The Hands of Time
Time is a river that never looks back, A whisper of stars on a sky-turning track. It slips through fingers, silent and thin, A thief in the night, yet a place to begin. It heals all wounds—but leaves a scar, A mark that shows us who we are. We chase the future, mourn the past, While now, the present, fades too fast. A baby laughs—then learns to cry, A mother smiles and waves goodbye. The clocks may tick, the years may fly, But truth remains: we live, we die. Yet in between those first and last, Are quiet moments flying fast— A walk, a hug, a secret glance, A song, a kiss, a second chance. So let the hours freely roam, But build your memories close to home. For time won't wait, nor ask, nor pause— It simply moves without a cause. Make every second bold and bright, A spark within the endless night. For time is fleeting—but sublime, A story shaped by hands of time. ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
