slam poetry

Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.

  • Charlene Ellison
    Published 2 years ago
    Shut the Front Door

    Shut the Front Door

  • Sophia Merici
    Published 2 years ago
    Sea Sick Duck
  • Charlene Ellison
    Published 2 years ago
    B---- Don't Kill My Vibe
  • michael angelo
    Published 2 years ago
    A Letter to My Freshman-Year Self
  • Ti Ana
    Published 2 years ago
    Me, You, and the House

    Me, You, and the House

    So immersed in the flavor of smoke,they called it the bakery.Tasted like warm comfort on a Sunday afternoon,they practiced it like it deserved mastery.Hearing midnight chatter in the basement,they sought petty secrets through the wallsand each quiet argument was coupledwith two strangers making out in the halls.The paint is chipped in the bathroom,your roommates thought the neon Budweiser sign would be cool.College life is sometimes a mystery,since you never know what people will call you.After the 2:00 a.m. rush of flailing white girls running out the bathroomand into the dark ether of regrets.I sat in the bedroom,told you to get a new place or deal with setbacks.Someone forgot to turn off the bass next door.The mold on the carpet screams rookie mistake.It’s suddenly another night of our quiet sharped tongues,it’s suddenly another break of day.I was so fed up,I threw the pizza boxes onto the street.I was a grenade in the lawn of disappointments,exploding whenever we couldn’t take the war heat.College boyfriends.The only ones I ask myself what I was doing with.But I knew sure as hell that during many nights,I lied in my dorm room, smiled, and knew this euphoria was no myth.We were everything we could be.We were everything we shouldn’t have been.I didn’t know who I was.No one knew where you were goin’.Slamming doors in the hallwaysnever added up to much.We’d like to think it was worth it,but we were moving this relationship with a crutch.Now it’s a distant memory in the lit sky.I wake up in my own apartment with curtains over the window.Some days I wonder where you are.Some days I understand it’s best not to know.
  • Skylar Cribb
    Published 2 years ago
    Mirror

    Mirror

    Look in the mirror
  • Charlotte Hoy
    Published 2 years ago
    Depression

    Depression

    There's still more to come
  • Matthew Hernandez
    Published 2 years ago
    Skeletons

    Skeletons

    Turn on the light and greet the skeletons in your closet. Make sure your grip is firm and confident for they've been sizing you up; even when they hang dormant like the styles of your eighth grade year. Pretending it never happened doesn't erase it from existence, and acting as if it does not matter doesn't exempt you from acceptance. I mean, you are here, and now the baggage you carry doesn't lighten so you might as well bear the burden with tone's eyes. Pick up life and learn to let go of the dead weight cancer that killed your brother. That hushed your mother. That buckled your father's knees after raised hand "Si, se puede! (Yes, we can)" stand. The poison that ran through his veins stops at your bloodline. You've been given nothing but time wasted on another who gave no love only themselves. Go ahead, curse and cry into open air blaming others for your own thousand mile stairway to little hell. Forgiven by everyone except those same eyes that threw in the towel at the chance of new health. Stay buried and blistered like the forgotten sister, who's been abused similar to mother figure. The sound of being silenced like fitted shoes given by father figure. This vicious cyclone that throws everything around except respect reflects through a jagged mirror that does cut. New scars on skin but not on mine. Old scars off skin but only in mind. This condemning witch hunt only stopped when the sight of yourself being burned at the stake. Don't be fooled by the dead weight hate to believe this was done by mistake. Life will eventually lead back to this soft soil, deep grave that holds your forgotten name. You haven't been led astray, just have faith in being raised by that newfound Love's hand. Being dusted off by the same hand to behold mind's promised land. You've been made anew to create this path you choose; striding through death's valley of gossip and secular news. Nothing has changed, only you. Nothing is the same, only you. This is called an elevated view. Follow the breadcrumbs back to the devil's trap singing a sweeter tune than you were given to use. Being a moving mountain with a lighthouse that's no longer striped black and blue bellowing "give me your tired, your poor huddled masses" all the while nurturing the conquering Love that has been anticipated in foretold lore. Finally snatching back the cat's tongue with loose lips building ships designed to fair seas we skilled sailors have seen. Collectively deciding our destiny and it all starts by turning on the light. Greeting your skeletons. Open the door Love is waiting. Fall head over heels into yourself and catch this new, refreshing breath with true intent to figure out the rest.
  • Gloria smith
    Published 2 years ago
    Equally Connected
  • Michael avant
    Published 2 years ago
    Deflect

    Deflect

    I don't like what I'm hearing, let's not play this by
  • shiney poetry
    Published 2 years ago
    Confessions of a Fat Girl

    Confessions of a Fat Girl

    growing up I was always told "you are pretty for a fat girl" and I always took it as a compliment until I got older and I quickly figured out that they were saying fat girls aren't supposed to be pretty so I was lucky that I was a fat girl and still could be pretty why do I have to be pretty for a fat girl? why can't I just be pretty?
  • Mariia Bashmakova
    Published 2 years ago
    The Chase

    The Chase

    There, in the distance, we see a glimmer of home,