forget not king warning demonic
danger incremental gradual liberal
nor genocide joey precedent
nor dispensation donny cleansing
oligarchy authority false choice
g ford greater more effective evil
empire merrikka people subjects
rejects will well being ignore
dream fruition arriving never more
guard commons free speech farmed
private sector extract boiled ready frog
politic elect thesbian culture war
tonies grammies oscars divide conquer
chopping chomsky consent manufacture
wealth income earth labor rare birth
despair lament pay rent higher
proper response race both blatant
subtle kinder gentler totalitarian
all planet people planted excluded
possible power economic politic
remote hemmed chemical psycho
social escape routes addict dead ends
abundant narrate nook craney cross
every color four bid three finger all pro
nouns nun since seeing poking stabbing
lids bins laden all gore beat rhyme
tapdancing tintinabulation embedded
robot tune ruin seesaw sooth soul life
sleep endless bow dark nestle loud
selah
Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
Yes ma, I am a boy and I don't like the lack of favour which I had been offered so I wont sit with the others and this is because I am a tainted boy, who found what love was on the tint of my phone, blocking out the camera with my thumb in case it records because although I was young I had already known what it meant to be seen, just like on the silver of my screen which had reflected my face in a way that I had deemed as inappropriate, I'd rather not associate with my features, specifically the brown in which I wear or my tainted hair, it coils. What is love? I am a boy with my hands on my phone but I would rather have spent those days held by you ma and although I'm young I'd have sown what love is, like how I could tear open the ducts on my face, yes I sometimes cry when you are not there. I am sad all the time Ma, kanti izandla zami ezani?(what are my hands for)
I want to be loved.
When beauty’s gone bye bye and slack flesh becks
Jowls, crow’s feet, graveled voice and turkey necks
Too old to be a narcissist
what’s left is a pacifist
*Tender genteel haters do not make good peaceniks!
This is MY body. MY temple. MY fortress,
It doesn't come with permissions through the way that I dress.
You have zero rights to do what you please,
If I show some skin, it doesn't make me a tease.
You cannot grab my cookie and expect to be safe,
You should however prepare to be clocked in the face.
As a woman who's been silent for way too long,
Nows the time to stand up and its time to be strong.
When I dress my body its for my own pleasure,
Not for you to go forcefully digging for treasure.
When I dress provocatively it is NOT for your ease,
It certainly doesn't mean I belong on my knees.
I choose to dress in all sorts of ways,
Depending on what I'm needing those days.
To feel powerful, confident, sexy or comfortable,
Not for you to sit there and judge if I'm able.
Women keep rising because we are unbreakable,
We come back harder, stronger and less amenable.
You don't own me, my body, or my rights,
So stop trying to dominate the women who bring you life.
In a rather egotistical
and pathetic attempt
to immortalize myself,
in something I lost,
everything.
And now that I’ve burned
all of my bridges and I’m drowning,
the only thing I have left
to do is work.
And it's not working.
And the only ones
praising my work
are little kids,
the same age I was
when I broke everything.
Lucky me.
I watch them do
the same foolish things,
reaching for pointless dreams,
immortalizing themselves
for no one and nothing.
What I wouldn’t do
to have something,
and what I wouldn’t give
for something
worth saying.
Empty words
look prettier
when they’re
written in blood.
And trust me,
it’s dripping
straight out of
my pen tip
and into my lungs.
I wish that
instead of pneumonia
I had amnesia.
Maybe then,
I could forget about
all of this.
I'm too quiet
I talk too much
I'm too involved
I'm way too out of touch
I'm too messy
I care too much about things being clean
I'm too kind
I'm way too f*ckin mean
I'm too close
I'm too far away
I went to bed too early
I stayed up too late
I'm too skinny
I'm too big
I'm too generous
I'm a stingy f*ckin bi*ch
I should have still cooked for you
When you said you wouldn't eat
And you said I should go out with my friends
Then asked where the hell I've been
And I'm too timid
I'm too bold
I'm too immature
I act too old
And I'm too happy
And I'm far too blue
It doesn't matter what I am
It isn't good enough for you
Some use AI yes they do
But won’t admit that it’s true
I’ve seen AI much too much
It’s got that robotic touch
As long as other folk strive
We’ll keep REAL poems alive
It’s just too good to be you
You use AI yes you do
I read each line and I stare
As I am all too aware
It is just computer speak
The content’s very weak
We must keep poetry real
With true emotions we feel
You use AI yes you do
why not admit that it's true!
If I made ends meet by meeting millions of millionaires in meetings galore,
would you care to explore my heart?
If I made up my mind to resign, and spend my time at a diner,
behind the scenes,
would you find a way to care about me?
If I took up poetry, and wrote hundreds of stories,
told in metaphor, with rhyme and prosody,
creating irony in euphony,
depicting pictures no eye can see,
neither mind comprehend without a beating heart,
would yours skip a beat?
Would you see the beauty that breathes beyond ink and paper?
Would you see its creator and stupor in thought?
Would you suffocate in the fog that envelopes body and mind,
unable to find the words to tell the story of your sentiment?
Would it spark a desire to explore and admire my entire being-
every minor detail?
To be real, do you even know me at all,
or just the stale version that pales in comparison to the whole?
I want you to know the whole of me,
and want to hold me for it.
I'm not sure when you left,
but my guess is, it's been a process
from the beginning.
Maybe the moment you left heaven's presence
you longed for its essence,
and left unnoticed?
Or was it when your freedom fell,
taken from the grips of hell,
and all it taught you to believe about yourself,
and life?
Or maybe when the one you
felt could change all that,
did change all that,
and left himself?
So, so did you?
Or, was it when your dad left?
Or maybe when the very definition of God
was crushed under betrayal's menacing vengeance?
Your dependence on yourself was your downfall,
you know.
And now, there's no feeling left at all.
The more you left,
the more I was left wandering,
left wondering,
how to find someone who desires to remain in the shadows
If God is hateful
explain where love comes from.
If God is your equal,
define the body
and how each piece flows as one,
and recreate it.
If God is betrayal
convince me your life is done,
that you're not just undone,
but unfinished.
If God is pure punishment
explain replenishment,
recuperation
and recovery.
Your discovery of God is not set in stone
and neither is mine.
So give Him some time to show you these rhymes
are more than mere poetry,
not solely words on a page.
Go on and gauge what the 'h' this means for yourself
In defense of a poet who didn't deserve harsh words.
You know the saying... 'If you have nothing nice to say..."
I'll not write a reprimand for two rolling bumblers
that stumbled over themselves in the last two days.
Some people live in a haze, throwing shade at others,
I won't throw hot coals on their heads.
They'll just keep rolling, rolling, rolling,
hopefully into oblivion.
This
poet
and her pen
wish no parting,
like a blessed union,
as two souls, incumbent,
bear junk without the other.
My pen may be a bridge for vines.
My pen may be a Hit in summer.
My pen may be a relic by winter...
Pen and poet, we unearth elegance
within plain paper. We may rescue
boats from falling wreck to shallows.
We. captains of the Ether,
lyrical lifelines,
oxygenation,
painting used homes
into fame
ruin
lies.
If I missed you
What difference will it make
When I’m metaphorically stuck in this irony called life like a lost piece of a puzzle
If I stopped scribbling
Of what gain will it be
Burying myself, my feelings and pain proving the world to be strong
I catch junk with a stick
Whip it like batter
Make it thick
Set it firm in an oven brick
A sleight-of-hand trick
Flipping a well-rehearsed schtick
Pulling it out of the fire quick
Cool…then plate with a crispy breadstick
Sink your teeth in…taste the kick
A feast of rhyme…a bold remix
Juicy lyrics on a drumstick
Specific Types of Slam Poems
Read wonderful slam poetry on the following sub-topics:
depression, emotion, feminist, funny, kids, life, love, lyric, middle school,
and more.
Definition | What is Slam in Poetry?
Poems Related to Slam
spoken word, hip hop, rap, blow, smash, pound, crash, wham, burst, ding, smack, bang, clap, boom, crack, blast, whack, bash, smash, beat, slap, dash, swat, bang, batter