slam poetry
Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.
A Bottle of Pills
I will admit with shaky hands and tears in my eyes that I am not mentally sound, but I act like it. I know the words that will come out of the mouth of my retracted if I admit my not mentally healthy mind. I can hear the words they said to me when I was twelve and told them that I thought I was depressed. I do not know what depression is and therefore was not depressed. So I stayed quiet. Even when the bottle of pills on the medicine cabinet was calling for me and promising a release from the pain and suffering I was feeling. Yet I never reached for those pills because I knew that if I did reach for those pills the inconvenience that I already was would be even greater.
By Tiffany Wells6 years ago in Poets
How to Greet A Flower
“It’s said, that of greeted correctly, the flowers in the town park would whisper secrets to you” But parks are rare, the flowers that occupy them more weeds than anything else. We live in a world where people have forgotten how to greet a flower, forgotten the gentle touch needed to hold its leaves in a firm handshake.
By Tavian Gonzalez6 years ago in Poets
My Skin
When I hear the word "Black" I feel proud because I know what my ancestors went through because of the color of the skin. I'm not ashamed because my ancestors were hard working people despite the cruelty and abused they faced weathered it was physical, mental or emotional. I love my skin and the history that comes with it, till this day we're being treated with disrespect and unfair treatments hopefully in the future that will change. I'm grateful for getting to experiences what black people have to go through when being bashed because I know how to handle it next time listing names of black entrepreneurs that were under rated. I I'm black and I'm not afraid to scream it; I love my black beautiful melanin skin that glows in the sun.
By Michelle Joseph6 years ago in Poets
I Love A Liar- Poetry
I love a liar, he lied to me. He told me he loved me, but he really loved the streets. He wanted me for his wife and he lived a wild life, so I told him to make a choice and he chose drama and strife. I love a liar, he lied to me. He said he loved me, but really loved the sheets. He kept me on cloud 9 while the truth had been denied.
By Jasmine Washington6 years ago in Poets
All Lives Matter
Really? Really? Really? A head has divulged its hideous face. The new confident, bigoted face of America. An orange complexion shrouds the four corners of my flat screen as I desperately search for sports center. But wait! A black face in Uncle Tom clothing rears its ugly face to me now. No safe haven to turn to… The world vehemently shouts at my black soul with odious tones, without my house doors being ajar.
By Eliman Jeng6 years ago in Poets
