#slam poem

[hanafinjdarcey]

#slam poem #admin post #sacha dhawan #flower #free spirit #lyrics #divinecore #heartshaped

[mad-girlslove-song]

"What if, when I finally figure out who I am, I can't stand her? Harder to imagine, what if I loved her?"

- Blythe Baird

#words #writing #poetry #spoken word #spoken poetry #spoken word poetry #spoken word poem #poetic #slam poetry #slam poem #blythe baird #web weaving #web weave #quotes #feelings #emotions #coming of age #on childhood #on growing up #growing up #childhood #this is what makes us girls #girl blogger #hell is a teenage girl #girlhood #girlblogging #coquette #nymphcore #nympette #female hysteria

[sleepy-academia]

after writing a paper against following your emotions, i laid in bed;

i'm sorry i missed dinner my heart was heavy and needed holding.

i can identify my word choice and argument but not my own fears.

#writeblr #writing #slam poetry #slam poem #sarah's writing #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #30 minute poetry #teen author #recent #indie author #queer author #poetry #teen poetry #poetry writing #poem #poet #writers #dark academia #light academia #academia #chaotic academia #freestyle #freestyle poem

[jamerasjournal]

Black people speak two languages. Job interview and AAVE. Question: When I fill out a job application can I still check the box that says bilingual. Does my ability to code switch depending on the setting that I’m in count as a job skill? I am always subconsciously turning down my blackness in an effort to make other people more comfortable. Beyoncé once said, “Got all this money but you’ll never take the country out me.” I felt that. I started kindergarten already knowing how to read and write. And no matter how many times my mama made me practice Hooked on Phonics, my first language will always be Ebonics. Spell Mississippi. M-I crooked letter, crooked letter- I- crooked letter, crooked letter- I- humpback, humpback- I. Okay, but spell it for real this time. M-I crooked letter, crooked letter- I- crooked letter, crooked letter- I- humpback, humpback- I. Did I stutter? I bet my great-great-great-granddaddy had an accent so thick that one sentence sounded like one word. And what’s in that word? Levels upon levels of trauma that you couldn’t even begin to fathom. It’s a slave spiritual sung over plantation fields, the last two letters spun into the cotton in your t-shirt. An apostrophe added cuz If you say one more syllable, you just might get whipped, boy. It’s living in a world where you can’t read the words. Mispronouncing words you don’t even know how to spell. While the rest of the world looks at you like you ain’t got no sense. But tonight, I’m gon’ talk how I wanna talk, cuz that slang is in my bones. And if you don’t like it you can get up out my face. Period. And I don’t wanna hear a nan ‘notha word about me talking “ghetto” when I stand before you with a last name my ancestors wouldn’t even begin to know how to say. And every time I sign my name I’m paying homage to the white family that used to own mine. Our language is one of the only things that can never be taken from me. It’s embedded into generations from long before my time. It’s okay that you don’t understand it, I’m not allowed to speak it to you anyway. Lest you call me uneducated, illiterate, or unprofessional. I must censor myself, brush it under the tongue. That is until you make me angry. Then everybody and they momma gon’ know you got the wrong one. Try me if you want to. I was raised on, “Do I look like Boo Boo the fool?” and “Stop crying ‘fore I give you something to cry about.” And that’s word to my momma. What’s in a word? I see your eyes widen when the African American Vernacular comes bursting out. So foreign to you it sound like a Voodoo spell. Yeah, this how I really be wanting to talk. Fix ya face. I cannot be Afrocentric and Eurocentric at the same time. I do not have the Freedom of Speech if the way I speak determines my intellectual capabilities. I must always accommodate a society that refuses to accommodate me. But you knows what? I’ve gotten real good at talking “white.” But every once in a while, if you listen- I mean real, real good. You can still hear that one crooked letter. The black cracking through like a toothless grin. Yeah. That’s my great granddaddy saying, “Say it with your chest girl.” So if you hear me talking loud it’s cuz I’m finna say something real important. And when I speak, you better listen.

-jamera naquai, CROOKED LETTER

#poetry #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #poets on tumblr #poem #poets #prose poetry #poet #poets corner #poetry in motion #slam poetry #poetry love #poetic #writers and poets #poetsandwriters #poetscommunity #dead poets society #poetblr #slam poem #long poem #poem of the day #prose poem #poems and poetry #my poem #original poem #poems on tumblr #code switching #poems and quotes #modern poetry #black poetry

[apathy-tied-in-knots]

#slam poem #discord poem #me #apathy original

[eastoniablogs]

Oceans roar as we stand in awe.

Timeless, timeless the waves cry.

Delve below I say,

Delve below.

The bed tells of the passage of time.

Aye, child. Time has passed.

Seek not the tides.

Delve below the foam.

Which cries timeless, timeless - fear the below.

The ocean floor holds the passage of time.

Telling of its quests and victories and surrenders.

It's here, it's here! The treasures of past.

But timeless, timeless the waves do cry.

And oh we are but mere whims to a unseen force.

To you I say, a sea is always in motion.

And to delve below,

Delve below.

Happy 29th Birthday Perseus 'Percy' Jackson!

Poem by me. Art by @dreamstarmoonlight and @marissasketchess

#poetry #percy jackson #dreamstarmoonlight #marissasketchess #happy birthday percy #you're 29 and to hell with the recent statement that has the bigwigs at the mouse corp all over it. #slam poem #slam poetry #eastonia makes

[thatweirdguyinthebushes]

HYMN FOR THE RECALCITRANT TOOTH (HRT)

a poem about god, transsexuality, and learning to box

THE FIRST TIME I TRY TO KILL MYSELF, GOD VISITS ME IN MY HOSPITAL ROOM AND SAYS “MAN UP, YOU FUCKING FRUITCAKE. YOU’RE NOT GETTING TO ME THAT EASY.”

A list of things a boy learns when he stops going to church and starts learning to fight in his dad’s backyard:

1. God is a pair of boxing gloves that smell like teenage sweat. He’s a thing you put on your hands to grasp the world better. He’s a lack of coordination and a near loose tooth. He doesn’t start to look holy until you paint something of your own onto his knuckles.

2. Prayer is something you have to learn to do. Women in long dresses and men in fancy suits don’t pray like we do, us queers and trannies in summer backyards, sweating into latex and tanktops. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to God if I'm not bleeding. “Are you trying to punish me?” I asked God one bloody weekday. “Was my sin the stone or the apple? Is Hell about me or my father?” He will tell me that you have to learn to pray, and part of that lesson is accepting the lack of an answer.

3. My little brother isn’t much like Abel, but I’ve seen him slaughter his fair share of sheep. Once, after he gets me hard in the chest, I throw a punch at his back when he’s walking away. I am not much like Cain, but I have known well the rage of the older, imperfect brother. They say Eve was tempted first, but I’ve yet to find a kind of hunger a man can resist.

THE FIRST TIME I TRY TO KILL MYSELF, GOD VISITS ME IN MY HOSPITAL ROOM AND SAYS “A TRANSSEXUAL IS THEIR OWN KIND OF PROPHET. YOU’RE GONNA BE RIGHT YOUR WHOLE LIFE, AND NO ONE WILL NEVER BELIEVE YOU.”

A list of things a boy learns when he stops fighting in church parking lots and start stabbing himself with a needle once a Sunday every Sunday for the rest of his life:

1. If you want to love a man you have to hate him first. Before I almost drowned at church camp, before I ate of poisoned fruit, before I bled into cotton pads and summer grass, I could never have loved God or myself.

2. If you want to worship someone you cannot always believe them. When Hannah has her first boy, she says to the lord “he will be yours always.” When he reads me this passage, I tell the youth pastor “that wasn’t her promise to make.” When I tell her I am starting testosterone, my mother cries. Just as priesthood was not Samuel’s, girlhood was not my promise to keep.

3. If you want to learn to pray, you have to learn to look for answers. A bloody boxing glove and a sweaty top lip and a not quite loose recalcitrant tooth. This is a Psalm if you know how to hear it. I do my first t-shot in my boyfriends bathroom, and the blood bubbling out of the wound sounds like a hymn.

#poetry #bpd poetry #poem #slam poem #writing #original writing #original poem #transgender #ftm #suicide tw #homophobia tw #religion #religious trauma #christianity #lgbt #queer

[noodles-07]

wrote a short poem about my childhood

reblogs > likes

image transcription under the cut

i was a child

with a storm inside

with lightning in my lungs

and thunder in my heart

-

when you’re a child

with a storm in your soul

nobody teaches you how

to gain control 

-

you’re expected to restrain it

to not let it destroy you

but how can you expect 

a child

to harness a storm?

-

my storm nearly drowned me

in fire and fear

no life jacket, no buoy

only a frightened child

screaming with no one to hear 

#my poem #my poetry #poetry #poets of tumblr #slam poem #i don’t know what tags I’m supposed to use help

[bxbybubble-jpeg]

#female rage #feminine rage #female poets #female hysteria #slam poetry #poem #scream poetry #scream poem #poetry #my poetry #original poem #poems on tumblr #poets corner #sad poem #slam poem #grunge aesthetic #bunny #bunnies #bunny rambles #bunny girl

[stardaziing]

"For a while it seemed like no matter how dark the world around the two of us got, you were able to carry a light in one hand and me in the other. A life vest and a lighthouse all in one. It's no wonder, then, that we both ended up shipwrecked, following a light that made us both blind."

— "Vivian," Letters to my Lovers (a book I'll never finish).

#poem #lovers #love #friendship #shipwreck #poetry #love poem #book exerpt #lighthouse #savior complex #slam poem #life #moonlight #dark poem #heartbreak #damaged #friends

[poetdreamerfool]

2023 - 4 - one

something in me changes at night. perhaps it knows for certain that all the best adventures happen after bed time. it feels like you opened time like a zipper-- where everything sucks but all is well. all is well. one step and slide: the swollen knee boogie; still I glide over the carpet like its water; the red light of the alarm clock blinks out into the void like a light house-- I crash upon my bed like waves upon rocks-- I hold my pillow up to my ear and I hear african poems, drums of war; made up stories under neon lights laughter, car doors shutting, and crying in the dark. crying sounds different in the dark all alone-- it feels more true. crying feels more real when it's a secret.

#poetry #poeticstories #alt lit #recognizingthevoiceless #poets on tumblr #black poets on tumblr #spilled ink #prose #original poetry #poetsandwriters #poetsglobe #poetselixir #button poetry #wnq anonymous #wnq poetry #wnq writers #black poets society #slam poetry #spoken word #slam poem #slam poet #creative writing #original poem #freestyle poem #original poety #buttonpoetry #poetsclub #black poetry #black poets matter #writer's block

[sleepy-academia]

i coax myself into the greens of march where everything grows new and when that doesn’t work i turn to september where it all dies in red

but i can’t deny my birth in the blues of january.

i resented this color, at first. it’s all stained, it’s worn out – it’s too old and has been around too long. the past is carried with me on the  shoulders of each worn-out, navy sweater, even the ones that are brand new.  the fog persists in my mind like it never stopped raining. memories i want to let go are woven in each cloud.

blue was a vintage phone, too old to hold onto, too worn to even ring in tune. not even the rust on it could mean something – and yet i couldn’t let it go. i tried taking deep breaths, counting to five but no matter the color of the kelp or the first that swam by, i was submerged. 

so i tried being something different.

when i left my hometown i walked ‘round the calendar months, trying on new hues. i spread myself thin like post-climate-change snow and waited for something new to happen. the blue that i knew — the blue that i was — was too stained. i had to get away from it.

and yet, after each night, i awoke, and the sun would rise again. i’d squint  and it would glare right back, the sky the same blue as it was in january, i looked out the window and knew – 

blue has always been my color. it would coat me, back home, in the notebooks my mom and i chose for middle school, the themes of my poorly-managed writing blogs, even the hair dye i wanted when i was fourteen. (it was probably good that i didn’t use that).

even before i was born, my dad spent hours in a buy-buy-baby parking lot, shivering and  fumbling with my booster seat. and when i came, my lolo and lola stared at  blue sky, blue sea, flying in a plane that  couldn’t move fast enough. my tita drove through  blue road signs, armed with pots of warm rice and  ulam to take to my mom in the hospital.

blue holds my past, but not all of it is cold. there are stories hidden in the cracked hands that built my days — and there are people waiting for me to come home. me and all my blue.

i am myself – i am helplessly myself – i am still myself — 

i am still here because even in january when the sky turns to rust the sun still rises

my canvas remembers every mark and my page every word my fabric remembers every stain  i come with the same-old warning labels, the same wash instructions, as i always have – for better and for worse

i am the same january girl – the ulam’s still warm, the planes still touch down safely, the seatbelts still click into place, and i am afloat, in the inks that stain and decorate me. i watch my chapters unfold, and the world calls for me on a phone that rings in tune.

#writeblr #writing #slam poetry #slam poem #sarah's writing #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #teen author #recent #indie author #queer author #poetry #teen poetry #poetry writing #poem #poet #writers #dark academia #light academia #academia #chaotic academia #spoken #spoken word

[passionsuggestions]

I'm constantly getting cut on the precipice of your cutthroat glare

I still desire it, like a teenager craves a pencil sharpener

Like my wandering soaked up heart still sits with you

The only area we connect is anger

Every 3-5 business days or months I'm here

Sitting on a metaphorical doorstep drooling over a memory of you

A memory that maybe I constructed

A distant phone rings, and when I pick it up it's your voice, cold with hatred

The mailbox shoots a million poloroids at me, each a snapshot of your stabbing eyes on Broadway st.

The last time I saw you I felt my blood like permafrost

90 degree heat does nothing to quench me

I am insatiable, putrid, disgusting to you

Your anger has become mine

There's a reason I tried so hard to memorialize you before you left

If one loving touch was enough to last a lifetime, I wouldn't fucking be here

So much of your love is shards

Each one with a glint of a charming grin, a memory of safety as you held me

Perhaps they're a mirror, like our suns and moons, reflecting me, reflecting you

Maybe that's why they call it disorganized attachment

Because I can't fucking pick them up

Everyone else on the planet is just fine

They aren't moving, they aren't seeing

I'm pushing so hard at the crust of the universe to go back in time

I never will

Instead I'm memorializing anger

Instead I'm forgetting you, except in some dreams where you love me

My lungs burn for you

And for the lack of air you once gave me

There's no cut, drug, or drink that would quite touch me like you do

Nor a 12 step program for firework kisses

Or rehab for losing hours in your company

Slate eyes, twin flame, open fire

You are everything and nothing to me

A well-intentioned flame cannot lick away a fire that burns brighter

The more I try, the more you are there

The more you are there, the more I yearn

The more I burn and cut and bruise and wail

Anger is consuming me, and so are you

-E 2022

#poetry #poem #slam poetry #slam poem #spoken word #breakup #heartbreak #love #anger #suggestion #intense #passion #love addiction #insecure attachment

[youthrowmearound]

“

it’s my first day at work.

my boyfriend takes a picture of me like it’s the first day of school.

i’m business casual

airbrushed skin

hair just washed

dark circles

empty fucking eyes.

it’s my first day at work.

i’m paraded around the office, plastering a smile on my face that even i don’t believe.

i don’t remember anyone’s name.

every second dedicated to train

i’m pretending like i don’t spend every single second agonizing over what happened.

it’s my first day at work.

i get 2 read the handbook full of mission statements, safety protocols, and

i get 2 messages from you asking how i’m doing but i know you don’t mean it, i know you don’t mean it because

i got 2 hours of sleep last night because i was waking up next to a man who was not my boyfriend or trying to sleep off the worst hangover i’ve ever had or desperately combing through my memories to figure out what the fuck happened because all i remember is black or at the hospital getting a rape kit until 1am or in my bedroom putting my sheets and new clothes into evidence bags or in my boyfriend’s room pretending like i was sleeping when really all i could do was stare at the wall.

it’s my first day of work!

i get 2 read about rape.

victims get 2 weeks to recover

i haven’t even been here for 2 days.

”

— kdf // i will never again be the person i was before and i will forever resent you for that.

#poetry #spilled ink #excerpt from a book i'll never write #spilled thoughts #sad poem #sad thoughts #sa survivor #rapesurvivor #depressing poem #slam poem #spoken poem #spoken poetry #trauma #actually ptsd #ptsd vent #spilled emotions #anxiety #anxiety quotes #depressing quotes #depressing thoughts #sa awareness #sa poem #tw rap3 #actually bpd #bpd thoughts #living with bpd #bpd poetry #bpd feels #depression #believe victims

[mybeloved-bee]

drown

I was drowning and I couldn't find the drain and maybe I didn't want to or maybe I was blinded by the blood in the water pooling from the wounds I'd self inflicted but I had realized upon swallowing the dark entity surrounding me that it didn't matter because either way it would be my fault. and it wasn't. the hands pushing me down, keeping my head underwater, they all pulled away eventually when they decided it wasnt fun anymore but the weight of their hands was heavier than the water in my lungs and the crimson liquid no longer in my veins. their hands, the water, the blood, me. drowning. I swore it wasn't my fault. I'd think it over again once I found the strength to push back and take my first real breath of air in a lifetime. but part of me will always be drowning.

#slam poetry #slam poem #slam poets on tumblr #poems and poetry #short poem #poems on tumblr #poetry #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry #writerscommunity #writeblr #writers on tumblr #vent poem #trauma #drown in my mind #short story #i wrote this

[heavy-hearted-222]

"Sometimes, I miss being sick. The grimiest part of me wishes I had stayed in that familiar city of gray, and mental illness and whatever the opposite of healing is. Where there was noting to laugh about but plenty to write about. I have considered myself to be rcovered from my eating disorder for 3 years, but I still write about it in present tense. I also still keep all of my exes n my contact list. And for once I don't wanna write about this. For the first time I am embarraresed instead of proud of all of the mad things I have done fore happiness. When a friend a dinner makes a causl comment on calories the scoreboard in my head illuminated with numbers again. Once, I cut a ribbon the size I wanted to be and wore it around my waist like a bracelet. Bathroom scales make me feel nostalgic, like a scrapbook I flip through snapshot of my sickness. The suppers of tobacco smoke and red lipstick. How I used to pack my lunchbox with floss and teeth whitening strips. Last night, I painted my nails when I was hungry, I can't eat until the polish is dry. I don't wanna go into more detail because what if you mistake the poem for an instruction manual. When recovery is not all yoga mats and tea and avocados. It is work. It is reminding myself that sucking on icecubes does not count as dinner, body forgive me. It is not healthy to drink so much water that your body becomes a bathtub your organs float in like loofahs. Body forgive me. Recovery is hard work, not wanting to die is hard work. Everytime you asked if I was full I heard you say fat but I am trying so hard not to do that. But I cannot unmemorize the calories of a peppermint. Wanting to die is not the same as wanting to come home. And I'm still trying to remember that."

"Relapse." - Blythe Baird, Button Poetry

#an0r3c1a #anorexcya #ed behaviour tw #ana rant #notprojustformyself #ed not ed sheeran #thinspø #lana del rey #s3lf mutilation #slam poetry #blythe baird #slam poets on tumblr #slam poem