slam poetry
Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.
F*CK OFF
We come into this world soiling ourselves, and we rest under that same shitty soil once the lights go out for good... When you see me, do not ask, “What do you do for a living?” I exist in my mortal shell for the time being—nothing more, nothing less. Careers come and go. Money is earned, money is spent. Love is gained, and love is lost. Once was young, now is old. Get my drift.
By Armand Slayer2 months ago in Poets
This Is How I Feel
Introduction My main account is still unable to post. It has been a week, and Vocal have not acknowledged that there is an issue. I won't let it stop me from writing, though. My main account is here, and this is the first month since I started where reads have not covered my subscription.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred - EBA2 months ago in Poets
Time is Linear. Top Story - November 2025.
Time is all-forgiving so I’ve named myself after her. I’ve built an endless soul inside of a shell and slapped my fingerprints on every inch, hoping somehow they’ll find it when we’re gone. I don’t know how to tell you that I would cut open every organ in my doll of a body just to prove the absolute fervor that flows through cells combining pink, and I don’t know if it’s too late to say it. Time would stay, so I will, too. She can’t feel conflicted because there’s only one destination, one task, one rhythm to stay awake. I thought if I created a world, it would keep its eyes open, or at least tell me when it starts to get sleepy. It’s okay to take a nap, but I don’t know what I’d do if the gears stopped turning altogether. I don’t know why the confusion is the most arduous of all these mixed up destinations, but I’ll go downtown to change my name tomorrow. That should bring me a little closer, I think. I’ve built something so exquisitely strange with all these smudges and cells and bruises of seconds, that I’m not sure I could take it apart. I’m not sure I could leave it here to be found in ruins, or ensure the glass jars of my ever-hearts will not go rotten the second I’m gone, or you, or our children. It’s not the building, nor the signatures nor the nails nor the shelves, it’s our bodies that make this collective soul breathe in time. Without us, time does not exist beautifully; or, at least it won’t while I’m still waiting for the fire to be put out.
By Olivia Dodge2 months ago in Poets
