performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Breathe Between the Breaks
Breathe Between the Breaks"Poems for When Life Splits Open I. Breathe Between the Breaks When the days blur like watercolor dreams left out in the rain And all the clocks tick but none of them tell truth— Pause. Not to collapse, But to catch What’s left of yourself in the stillness. Breathe. Between the break-up and the breakthrough, Between the slam of a door and the softness of memory, There is a gasp. And that gasp— That in-between, That half-sob, half-laugh sound Is where you are reborn. II. Split Open Life doesn’t always ask permission before it breaks you. It doesn’t say, “Hey, you good?” Before it smashes your plans like fine china against the wall. It just Tears through. Like truth through silence, Like light through blinds, Like grief through smiles at a funeral. Sometimes life splits you open Not to destroy you— But to expose the roots. To show what’s been buried: The lost songs, The stolen dreams, The voice you tucked under politeness And left there for years. The split is an invitation— To return To the ache You never admitted. To the strength You never claimed. III. The Breath Between It’s not in the loud moments that you find yourself. Not always. Sometimes it’s in the in-between. In the breath between The job loss And the first “you got this.” In the moment between Being left And learning to stay With yourself. You breathe between the breaks Like a gospel singer holds a note— With purpose. With pain. With praise That you’re still here, Still humming Even if the song has changed. IV. Beneath the Rubble There’s beauty in the broken. But don’t let Instagram lie to you— It’s not always aesthetic. Sometimes it's red-eyed at 2AM, Staring at a ceiling that won’t answer back. Sometimes it’s empty plates, And rent unpaid, And prayers that feel like echoes. But beneath the rubble Is a heartbeat. Yours. Still wild. Still writing stories in blood and hope That tomorrow might taste better. V. When It All Goes Quiet Sometimes life splits open Not with thunder But with a whisper. No fire, no fanfare—just absence. The silence after a door closes, The emptiness after a “forever” turns into “Maybe next life.” You wait for the scream. But what comes Is stillness. And that stillness Holds you Like arms that forgot how to let go. VI. The Pulse of the Unseen Let me tell you something— Not everything that breaks is broken. Some things break to breathe. To shift. To make room for the real. The pulse you feel Underneath the ache? That’s your soul, Still dancing. Even if no one’s watching. The bruise becomes the blessing When you realize you survived it. That you’re still standing, Not despite the break, But because of it. VII. Speak the Shatter Name the pain. Call it out. Don’t swallow it like pride— Let it pour. Rage if you must. Weep if you can. Whisper if that’s all you’ve got. Your voice Is the first thread In stitching yourself back together. Speak the shatter. Say: I cracked. Say: I collapsed. Say: I came undone. And then say: But I kept breathing. I kept believing. I found rhythm in the ruins. VIII. The Mirror Lied The mirror told me I was empty. Said the cracks made me weak. That no one loves A cup that leaks. But the mirror doesn’t know That I’ve held oceans. That I have poured Myself into others And still had songs left to sing. That even shattered, I reflect light. The mirror forgot That survival looks messy. That glory wears scars Like medals. IX. Instructions for the Days You Can’t Move 1. Breathe. That’s the only rule. 2. If breathing feels like drowning, let the tears join the tide. 3. Remember: rock bottom is still a foundation. 4. Don’t demand joy, just demand truth. 5. If all you do today is blink and exist, that is holy too. X. Rise, Gently You don’t have to rise like fire. You can rise like the tide— Slow. Steady. Unstoppable. You can rise With cracked hands And swollen feet. You can rise In whispers, In songs no one hears yet. You can rise Gently. Without apology. Without perfection. Just presence. XI. Testimony of the Torn This poem is not a eulogy. It’s a resurrection. I’ve been dropped, Ditched, Dismissed— But never destroyed. Call me phoenix. Call me stubborn flame. Call me prayer still waiting To be answered. I am the story Life thought it ended— But the next chapter Was just written in breath And grit And grace. XII. Breathe Between the Breaks (Refrain) So when the silence comes— Welcome it. When the tears return— Taste them. When the world forgets your name— Speak it louder. You are not the break. You are not the damage. You are the breath That keeps rising Between it all. So breathe, beloved. Breathe between the breaks. That’s where The healing begins. That’s where The poems live. That’s where You find You.
By Samson E. Gifted2 years ago in Poets
In Every Sip
In that tender whisper of dawn, also in shadow, Before the spirit entered into battle with light, There lies in the threshold between heaven and earth a cup, dark and deep, stirring the soul from dreamy sleep. O coffee! Bold and grand elixir, You warm the heart and steady the hand. From distant hills your journey starts, Across soil and sun and through farmers' arts. You wear the midnight robes, Birth the day in every brew. Your perfume, a hymn to wakeful peace, Where thoughts begin and worries cease. In porcelain or paper held, Such storm-calming dreams you swell. You speak in steam, in warmth, in grace, A quiet friend in frantic place. Espresso shot, so swift, so pure, Like fire that strikes the poet's core. Or latte soft with velvet cream, Like gentle hands that hold a dream. The mocha whispers tales of sweets, Of stolen glances, secret treats. Capuccino's foamy kiss, Lingers long in morning's bliss. O sacred bean from tropic land, You have passed through time, through every hand, From ancient Yemen's whispered lore Into Paris cafés' open door. In solitude or crowded hall, You listen as confessions fall. The writer's muse, the thinker's mate, A pause between steps of fate. In lovers' talks and silent sips, You rest on longing's trembling lips. You catch the tears of sleepless nights, You dance in laughter's soft delights. Bitter truth in every drop, Yet sugar dreams can make it stop; You teach us balance, joy, and pain, And of how loss can be so deep, but strength is gained from strain. Baristas spin your magic blend; With hearts they pour, with hands they mend. Art in foam, and care in pour, This ritual we all adore. Time may race, the world may turn, But still, we yearn for you. No meeting starts, no story grows Without the spark your presence sows. Your myriad shades, your many names, Yet your heart, ever true, remains. Arabica's grace, Robust's might, You grace the morning sun. O coffee! Dark and wise and bold, Midas made the spirit timid. With every sip, we find our pace, We face the day, we find our place. In office walls or mountain air, In bustling streets or rocking chair, You walk along with us, from first till last, A thread that weaves both future and past. And when the dusk begins to fall, And silence sings its velvet call, A final cup, perhaps decaf - Still warms the hands, still stirs a laugh. So here's to you, eternal fire, No other drink can stake your claim. O noble brew, you shadowed sea, The pulse of humankind are you.
By Remix Story2 years ago in Poets
