performance poetry
Performance Poetry is poetry out loud; poems brought from the page to the stage.
Fact or Fiction
Fact or Fiction Depending on who’s asking Tell me— do you want the truth, or the version that keeps things easy? Because I’ve learned answers aren’t always about honesty. Sometimes they’re about safety. Sometimes they’re about survival. Fact or fiction— it depends on who’s asking. If you come gently, I might hand you something real, something unpolished, still breathing, still fragile in my palms. But if you come with judgment hidden behind curiosity, if your questions feel like traps instead of bridges— then I’ll give you fiction. Not lies— just edited truths. The kind that fit your expectations, the kind that don’t challenge what you’ve already decided about me. Because truth is expensive. It costs vulnerability. It costs being seen without a guarantee of being understood. And not everyone earns access to that. So yes— sometimes I rewrite the story. I swap out pain for “I’m okay,” replace confusion with confidence, turn chaos into something that sounds like control. And you nod, satisfied, because it makes sense to you. But sense is not the same as truth. Fact or fiction— it shifts with the room, with the tone of your voice, with whether your presence feels like a place I can rest or a place I have to defend myself. Because the truth is— I am both. I am the story I tell and the one I keep hidden. I am honesty and hesitation. I am the version of me you understand and the one you never will. So if you’re asking— be careful how you ask. Because the real answer isn’t just in my words… it’s in whether I feel safe enough to give it to you.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
I SMILE TOO WELL
I SMILE TOO WELL A slam poem for those who mastered survival in silence I smile too well— so well you’d think joy lives here, like it pays rent, like it never packs its bags and leaves in the middle of the night. I smile like it’s second nature, like it didn’t take practice, like I didn’t stand in mirrors rehearsing how to look okay when I wasn’t. Because somewhere along the way, I learned that people love easy emotions— the kind that don’t ask questions, the kind that don’t interrupt the mood. So I became that. Convenient. Composed. Carefully edited. I smile in conversations that scrape against my chest, laugh at jokes I don’t have the energy to feel, nod like I’m present when my mind is miles away trying to hold itself together. And you don’t notice— not because you don’t care, but because I don’t let you. I mastered the art of hiding in plain sight. Of saying “I’m fine” with just enough conviction to make it believable. Of carrying storms in a body that only shows sunshine. I smile too well. So well that even I forget what my face looks like when it tells the truth. So well that asking for help feels like breaking character— like stepping off a stage I never agreed to perform on but somehow became known for. Because silence became my survival. It taught me how to swallow feelings whole, how to shrink pain into something manageable, something quiet. But quiet doesn’t mean healed. It just means hidden. And hidden things— they don’t disappear. They wait. They grow in the dark, learning new ways to be felt. So this smile? It’s not fake— it’s just overworked. It’s been carrying more than it was ever meant to hold, stretching across a face that’s tired of pretending everything is okay. I smile too well— but I’m learning how to let it slip. How to let the cracks show without apologizing for them. How to exist without performing peace. Because survival in silence kept me alive— but it was never meant to be my forever.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Heaven, Are You Listening?
Heaven, Are You Listening? Faith spoken through clenched teeth I don’t come gentle anymore. Not with folded hands or polished prayers that sound like certainty. I come with fists in my mouth, holding back questions that taste like doubt. Because faith— the kind they taught me— was supposed to feel like peace. But mine feels like pressure, like trying to believe while everything around me is breaking the promise. Heaven, are You listening? Or am I just speaking into a sky that learned how to echo but never answer? I’ve whispered. I’ve shouted. I’ve gone silent long enough to hear my own heartbeat beg for something back. And still— still— the quiet stretches. They say, “Trust the process.” They say, “He’s on time.” But time feels different when you’re the one waiting with empty hands and a heart that’s tired of hoping in circles. I want to believe. I really do. But belief isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, like holding onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers. Sometimes faith sounds like clenched teeth, like, “I’m still here… even when I don’t understand.” Because I’ve seen people lose everything and still say “God is good.” And I wonder— is that strength, or is that surrender to a silence we’ve learned to name holy? Heaven, are You listening? Because I am still speaking. Still showing up with words that don’t feel holy enough, with doubts that refuse to bow, with a heart that keeps breaking and calling it devotion. If You’re there— meet me here. Not in perfection, not in polished belief, but in this raw, unfiltered reaching. Because this— this trembling, stubborn, questioning kind of faith— is the only kind I have left.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
I Am Not a Machine
I Am Not a Machine A rebellion against burnout worship I was taught that worth is measured in output— how much I can carry, how long I can run without collapsing in public. So I turned myself into a system: wake, work, produce, repeat. No errors allowed. No downtime permitted. No room for the quiet voice that kept asking, “Is this living… or just functioning?” They called it discipline. I called it survival. Because in a world that claps for exhaustion, rest starts to feel like failure. You scroll and see the grind glorified— “no days off,” “sleep when you’re dead,” like burnout is a badge of honor you earn by slowly disappearing. But listen— I am not a machine. I do not run on commands. I do not reboot after every breakdown like nothing cracked inside me. I feel things. I break. I pause. And none of that makes me less worthy. I am not a factory of productivity, spitting out results to prove I exist. I am not built to be efficient at the cost of being human. Because there are days when my mind is tired before the morning even begins, when my body whispers “stop” but the world keeps shouting “go.” And I’ve learned— ignoring that whisper turns it into a scream. Burnout doesn’t arrive loudly. It creeps in quietly, disguised as ambition, as “just one more task,” as “I’ll rest later.” But later keeps moving. And suddenly, you don’t recognize yourself outside of what you produce. So this— this is my rebellion. I choose rest without guilt. I choose balance over applause. I choose to exist beyond deadlines and expectations. Because I am not a machine. I am a person learning that slowing down is not falling behind— it’s coming back to life.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Strong Is a Heavy Word
Strong Is a Heavy Word The weight we never talk about They call you strong like it’s a compliment wrapped in gold, like it doesn’t come with a cost. Strong— the word they hand you when they don’t know what else to say, when your silence looks like stability, when your survival gets mistaken for strength. But strength is heavy. It sits on your chest at night and calls itself responsibility. It sounds like, “You’ve got this,” when you really don’t. It feels like being the last one allowed to fall in a room full of people already breaking. They say you’re strong so they don’t have to ask if you’re okay. Because if you’re strong, you don’t need help. If you’re strong, you don’t get tired. If you’re strong, you carry everything— even the things that were never yours. Strong becomes a role. A mask stitched too tight to remove. A performance you didn’t audition for but somehow got cast as the lead. And the truth? Some nights, strength looks like holding your breath so no one hears you fall apart. Some days, it looks like showing up with cracks you’ve learned to hide so well they start to feel invisible. Strong is a heavy word because it doesn’t leave room for softness, for breaking, for being held. It turns “I’m not okay” into something you swallow whole, something you bury under “I’ll figure it out.” But listen— Strength is not never falling apart. Strength is not carrying the world until your hands forget how to let go. Strength is knowing when to put the weight down. It’s saying, “I’m tired,” without apologizing. It’s choosing rest in a world that only claps for endurance. It’s letting someone see the parts of you that don’t look like survival— but still deserve to exist. Strong is a heavy word. So if it’s crushing you, you’re allowed to set it down.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Filters Don’t Heal
Filters Don’t Heal A reality check in a digital world We learned how to blur before we learned how to breathe, soften the edges of truth until it looked like peace. A swipe, a tap—suddenly scars turn to smooth skin, and pain becomes something aesthetic, something you can like, something you can scroll past. We brighten the eyes but dim the story, crop out the chaos, frame the calm. We post sunsets over storms we never processed, captioned “healing” while the wound is still open, still speaking in a language we refuse to translate. Filters don’t heal. They just teach your hurt how to pose. They teach your sadness to stand up straight, to hold still long enough for approval, to wear confidence like borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit in the dark. Because behind the screen, there are nights with no edits, no undo button for the thoughts that echo louder when the Wi-Fi goes quiet. Behind the glow, there are questions no algorithm can answer— like why you feel empty after being seen by everyone but known by no one. Filters don’t heal. They just delay the conversation. And the truth? Healing is messy. It’s unfiltered mornings with swollen eyes, it’s breaking down without a soundtrack, it’s choosing yourself when nobody’s watching, and staying when everything in you wants to disappear. It’s raw. It’s real. It doesn’t fit into squares or seconds. So no— this is not about deleting the apps, or pretending the world isn’t digital. This is about remembering that your soul was never meant to be edited. That your worth isn’t measured in clarity, or contrast, or how well you hide the cracks. Filters don’t heal— but truth does. Time does. Honesty does. So take it off. Not your beauty— your mask. And let the world see something that doesn’t need fixing to be worthy… something real.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Progress Still Bleeds
Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds (But I Keep Walking) Even Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds in Silence Progress Still Bleeds, Just Not Like Before Where Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds Beneath the Surface Progress Still Bleeds, and That’s the Truth Progress Still Bleeds Through the Smile Progress Still Bleeds—But It Moves Forward
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
