slam poetry
Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.
Mirror
Look in the mirror and hate what you see once you realize you aren't the person you want to be Hate has taken over your soul
Skylar CribbPublished 6 years ago in PoetsDepression
There's still more to come More bad days, It's true Life doesn't get easier You just learn to get through Climb over obstacles
Charlotte HoyPublished 6 years ago in PoetsSkeletons
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.
Matthew HernandezPublished 6 years ago in PoetsEqually Connected
Colors There are many, but which one is the best? Gods They are plenty, but who's better than the rest? And everyone has their on truth to give, Their own arguments and own proof to give
Gloria smithPublished 6 years ago in PoetsDeflect
I don't like what I'm hearing, let's not play this by Ear, How do I face my emotions once they're mixed heavily With fear?
Michael avantPublished 6 years ago in PoetsConfessions 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?
shiney poetryPublished 6 years ago in PoetsThe Chase
There, in the distance, we see a glimmer of home, And we, run, scurry, stumble over our own dreams To reach out for a poorly painted picture of the light at the end of the corridor which vaguely and strangely gives a comfort of memory.
Mariia BashmakovaPublished 6 years ago in PoetsTomorrow Isn’t Going Anywhere If You Aren’t
Floating dust. Spotlight sunbeam. Feet towards the people. Cough the rust off your lungs. Empty eyes drawn to burning bulbs. It’s time to speak up.
Lungs CalogeraPublished 6 years ago in PoetsAlways a Bullet
Somewhere, a boy stands, a gun in his hand, a thought in his head. Somewhere, the same boy stands, holding a gun in his hand, holding a box of bullets in the other.
Max BergerPublished 6 years ago in PoetsPatiently Waiting
I am patiently waiting to be worshipped Paste me into your dithyrambs or iambs do whatever you like mold me a mask or a robe
Natalie SchafferPublished 6 years ago in PoetsGravy
Rubricate, rubricate, Rubricate the thresholds Lubricate, detonate Their iron pyrite, counterfeit gold. Flash the edutainment,
Clementine WebberPublished 6 years ago in PoetsWill You Make It out Alive?
Food is the enemy Staying busy is the remedy Stop for too long and you'll start to feel Hunger will fade after a little while of going without
Amanda OlejniczakPublished 6 years ago in Poets