'You Me and Poetry Scholarship Slam
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I remember when I first heard you
My unexpecting ears fell in love with your rhytym
Your anger
Your subtleness
Your vulgarity
And finally your resolve
When I fell, I fell hard.
Poetry is emotion bled onto a page
From the heart of the writer
It is sadness and joy and re-writing sentences until your hands tremble
Just to get the perfect description of what you see in your head
I write poetry because there are only so many ways that I can express how much I love spiders without sounding like a total creep.
poetry finds me words unhinged in melatonin miracles that reside in a
cracked projector lens and the soft curls of a projected boy who
spits rhymes in shared atmospheres of breath.
roachaphobia: simple, rhyming, frivolous: hatred wrapped in fear.
my very first poem was written at eight
or at least the first poem i clearly recall
i remember because my glory was fate
For many, it’s just words on a page
Held there by the writer’s will
Yes, it is words on a page
Whether in a rhyme or not
Well that’s up to the one that writes
Poetry to me is stability. It is being able to rely on emotion and truth in your work. I have been told my whole life that my word is the only thing I can give a person. However I never believed that my word could hold its weight.
My sentances are long, organized, complex,
but my mind always wanders,
short bursts of energy, infinite subjects.
Too long had I tried to say my thoughts normally.
Why try when poetry
Twas grace that struck a cord in me of late.
Grace of your "truths" and abled youth, short lived.
The truths to steer a ship through depths of hate,
Torn by the split of your children, short lived.
When you needed me most I was there
But when roles were reversed you didnt even care
I gave you my heart
But all you did was tear it apart
Now you come to me
Her name was Alcohol
But she went by many aliases:
Merlot, Patron, Ciroc, Cristal just to name a few
My mother used to walk in on my father and her
his lips around hers, hands caressing her neck and hips
You Withered my Flowersand I watched them Deterioratingas you poured Acid on themswearing it to be water. When I watched my Petals fall to the Ground,where you thought they laid best,I asked you "Why?"and you reacted as if I were the one who Burne
What Can I
(Watch the video)
[Verse 1:]
So, they ask me what’s poetry.
What can I do but tell you what this poet thinks?
On pale, thin sails I soar on vast seas
I scope the leather-bound horizon
And relish in the scripturient breeze
That carries me season through season
It is here on the path to adventure
It doesn't matter now does it?
Do our own words even define us anymore?
No that's not it.
Apparently to the social contruct our gender makeup defines us.
My refuge
My sweet rhythm of Sunday Blues
Words flow out of me like a river of crystals
Shiny, yet defined and really brilliant
Poetry is my refuge
An outlet for any and everything going on
Why isn't anyone listening?
I'm screaming, I'm crying out.
Listen to me, please...
Does it matter what I say?
No, I guess not.
I'm just a kid to you.
Don't you remember when you were young?
My first poem,
the highlight of my night ,
I remember it to this day full of delight,
I was about 10 then my poetry lay dormant again.
Sixth grade,
the middle before the middle,
When love filled all space in my heart,I couldn't keep it just to myself and had to find a way to share;So I got all the love I hadAnd made it into poetry.All who have ears should hear.
I said ignorance was bliss because sometimes I like to believe that the nothingness I feel is just a dream a really bad one
I said ignorance was bliss because somewhere I wanted to believe that reality didn't affect me
poetry
hiding me within the lines -
between the stanzas,
changing me from shy and strange to smug and strong.
poetry
with words saying we love you
as the world is saying we don't.
poetry
The words flow out of my mind.
They are written delicately on the film sheet of paper.
Combining into one another
In which way no other thing could.
The pen floats right above the paper.
What do you think when you see that girl walking across the street?With her head held down, eyes forward, feet flat on the ground, the hijab covering her head full of disparaging thoughts?
It is not just a pen.
It is not just a paper.
It is not just random words.
During my darkest hours
When I had no one to hold
A pen and paper is all I had
To protect me from the cold.
I Am The Bull, I'm North Carolina In a Nutshell, I Write These Stories Of My City And Let Them Tell Themselves I Place Them All On My Shoulders, I Am a Homemade Shelf I Am Made Of The Instruments In The Background, Of The Music That Bumps In My He
Searching for the flow
so it can spill on the page
Allow my emotions to go
instead of building rage,
but no story is worthy
so i dispose of my words
Given this talent to share with the world,
Discovered it when i was a young girl.
Didn't undderstand it until I got older,
It was the start of me feeling bolder.
If I couldn't say it,
I wrote it.
Words can be bittersweet
Like watching rain from the window seat.
They remind me of some better times
But a lot of poetry is reading between the lines,
A poem is-
nothing.
Why does a poem matter?
Because a poem is a piece of the self
Even a comical limerick
Yes,
Listening, just listening, then suddenly,
a word caught my ear
then another
and another
the way the words roll together
is like music
the words waltz together,
spin around,
What is my talent?
I possess the power to speak, to enhance a spoken word that ever so gracefully falls off my tongue.
Writing in a rythmic beat that soothes an anxious heart elates me.
Teacher says time to write a poem
Oh, no, I groan
This will be a nightmare
Empty page, glaringly white
Lines waiting to be filled
Tick tock, Tick tock
Pencil down, silver scratch
I put Emotions on my Canvas
for Everyone to see.
I put Sad up on the left
and Relief closer to me.
I put Happy in the center
and Anger in front of Fright.
I place Hate right next to Love,
Being a shy and reserved teen, I've always feel out of place. Going through a deep depression, a light came into my depth of darkness, which is my 10th grade teacher. She inspired me to express myself through root word play.
When I discovered poetry I didn't know what to think.
I couldn't understand it, like it was a riddle.
I didn't know that it would actual help me express myself
[Freestyle Slam] 7/12/2016
Grave me with the words left unsaid; that drowsy night under the light pole I was waiting for a man who said had loved me.
In English Class I dreaded the times
In which my class gathered to analyze rhymes.
The poems themselves were way too deep,
And yet still managed to go over my head.
Opps that last bit wasn't in tune,
In English Class I dreaded the times
In which my class gathered to analyze rhymes.
The poems themselves were way too deep,
And yet still managed to go over my head.
Opps that last bit wasn't in tune,
I remember slavery
It’s waxed into my mind
Made lyrical by the screams of my ancestors
Taught and passed down generation by generation
I may not know you; yet I know
These hurts are not your own--
But resealed boxes full of words
Somebody else has thrown.
I imagine you were worried
At these new acidic thoughts--
As a seed sewn in the ground
I was raised by word and sound
Music calmed my frantic woe
While Poetry pushed my stem to grow
A sapling green, yet easy to sway
A Harvester came to make me stay
confrontation scares me.
I don’t like to talk it out,
my tongue gets twisted
I hate to scream and shout,
I cant communicate how I feel
unless I write it down.
Perhaps I will never open this book again
But if I ever do
I'll be honest
I'll be truthful
As I flip through the pages again
I'll regret the choices I made
I'll regret the words I erased
I put Emotions on my Canvas
for Everyone to see.
I put Sad up on the left
and Relief closer to me.
I put Happy in the center
and Anger in front of Fright.
I place Hate right next to Love,
“Abyss” By: Johanna Augustin If you were to access my mind,You would be lost in a daze.You’d be caughtIn a misty morning, As fog and mist slap your face. It’s color changing abilities subdue me. Like how the petals of a flower grow around its bud
My love for you is so strong, It will never end
It's like hard concrete, It will never bend
I think of you every know and then
Like a check I get every two weeks
I sign it off with a pen
Poetry,
A outlet for me, even at the age of three,
Writing became my therapy,
In my darkest moments, hidden from the world,
Alone, scared, silent,
My fingers searched for my pen and paper,
They say that God created all men equal but I don't believe so.
Every day my head ends up in the clouds,
And my lungs make me breath slow.
The pitter patter of my thoughts
Reality is whatever my words make it.
A long forgotten shack in the middle of a blizzard,
I can't breathe.
'Let go!' I beseech.
It doesn't budge.
Its strong limbs just grip me tighter and tighter.
I can feel the strain throughout my entire body.
lit is lit
the written word
the modern expression
lit is lit
am i horse or girl
misinterpretation
despite careful deliberation
must get five
must get five
a juggler
They're just silly little things
So why do we care when they crack?
Why does it matter so much
That we would pay to get them back?
They're just silly little things
Of no importance at all.
The journey began
Merely a spray from a sink
Not of joy did I think
When poetry came to mind
A nuisance it was
To rhyme words and words
Just like the screeching of birds
To my selfless parents:
Raised like a princess,
Constant support,
Late night talks,
Just lots of love.
The kindest parents
Who give me inspiration
