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Best Spoken Word Poems

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Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Obsolete Words

He 
He verbalized 
He verbalized emotions

Poets are boring
In circle
They speak of pictures in words raining emotions
Crafting arrogance in words shaping negative smiles
They worry not of the uneducated
Poets are boring
They speak bombastic thoughts with no
explanations in sentences married to multiple dots
Sentences and numerous dots

Skies raining thorns aimed at sinful skeletons
What?
Storytelling tales in wordy storyboards
What?

He 
He verbalized 
He verbalized emotions
He spoke reactions

Where i come from
Dogs don’t eat dogs
Dogs bark in favour of crops
I’m from the city that never sleeps with no pity
I’m from the ghetto that speaks of famous beggars

He voiced 
Until poets spoke
Until spears got shaken and poked

Shine not from negativity
See those who speak with your ears
Poets are far from boring
They live in places of the living dead

They walk solutions before difficulties wearing a stranger’s shoes
They speak tears before drowning regrets
Old age poems don’t need social workers
They live fresh fragrances for decades
Eyes and ears resurrect their messages

Let those words be out of date
Poets are disciples of your queries
The energy plugged into your feet
Spitting answers before prank stars question your remedy 

Look into the eyes of lies
See emotionless reality attract visions
Look into the eyes of lies
Look into the eyes of lies

(c) Ray

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

She Hulk

When I was a child I only ever wanted to be strong.
I wanted to be able to compete with the boys
and when I foot raced them at recess I won every time.
They called me ‘She Hulk’ because of my muscular frame
and from the way I only ever wore soccer t-shirts and sweat pants.
After that nickname was implanted into my brain like a growing weed,
I’ve only ever wanted to be feminine.
I started wearing skirts and dresses 
and in middle school they shrieked at the site of my makeup and done up hair.
But that weed inside of my mind only grew, and grew, and grew
until I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part anorexic and two parts lonely,
because I thought that the definition of feminine began with the word frail.
No one ever realizes how greatly words affect us,
how a simple nickname can turn a pretty girl into a skeleton.
I stood at five foot two weighing seventy nine pounds,
so cold and frozen,
yet I still considered myself a ‘She Hulk.’
You could see my ribcage through my t-shirt
and my spinal cord protruded loudly through my weathered skin,
as if somehow my bones were dirty knives
just trying to cut through the flesh of judgment.
As I grew older I became the girl that was never enough.
Not good enough to speak poetry.
Not good enough to lay paint on a canvas.
Not good enough.
Not tall enough.
Not big enough boobs for them.
Not primped to perfection.
Not undeniably straight.
Not smart enough.
Not dumb enough.
Not ditsy enough.
Not cool enough or fun enough.
And I began to believe, too, that I wasn’t enough.
I never told my mother that I had been in madly in love with a girl.
I never told anyone about the night we first kissed 
because I was too vulnerable for the judgment.
And parents always justify saying that ‘kids will be kids’
But when we are kids our brains are still growing
and the smallest of seeds that get planted will one day bloom
into one giant regret,
will one day affect the choices that we make,
will one day influence us about the clothes that we wear,
will one day shape us into the person who we thought we would never be.
I only ever wanted to be strong,
and as a child I thought strength was only about being able
to lift a bar stool above your head.
I thought that strength was only about being able
to beat the boys in bare foot running races.
I was told that strength was something only
a man could have.
But as I’ve grown older I’ve realized that strength
isn’t about muscle at all,
but it’s about weakness,
and the ability to overcome the social anxiousness.
It’s about carrying around a lifetime of baggage
on your broken back
because the ones that kicked you when you were down
are going to be the ones that were  ultimately wrong.
I thought that the definition of woman 
began with the word disappointment.
And I became a mixed drink cocktail
with one part freedom
and two parts Sailor Jerry
because every girl needs a stiff drink once and awhile.
We are not disappointments.
We will never be the ones who gave up on hope.
We will never be the ones who gave up on each other,
or god,
or our mothers.
We will always be enough;
enough for the ones who shunned us 
enough for the ones that cursed us
enough for the ones the hurt us
and destroyed us
and beat us when we were covered in bruises.
But you see, bruises fade
and the scars of our flesh are only stories
things we have overcame
and there are things out there that we will overcome.
When I was a child, I only ever wanted to be strong.
I hid my vulnerability.
I hid the parts of me that were true.
I never told my mother about my girlfriend
because I was afraid she wouldn’t understand,
kind of like all those people who never understood 
just how much words effect us. 
I can’t say that I can beat the boys at foot races anymore,
because, well, I smoke cigarettes now.
And I can’t say that the nickname of my childhood didn’t affect me.
But I take that name now and embrace it.
Because I am strong.
I am the ‘she hulk’.
I am a mixed drink cocktail
with three parts greatful.

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

God, don't look at me like that

I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon,
and the bullets of my heart don’t bleed like you think they should
instead they melt
melt like icecream set out in the summer sun,
like the mountain snow run off into the streams,
like ice clamped together between my fist,
my fists,
my fists that stop bullets from protruding my skin,
my fists that explode and scream louder than a sermon.

God, don’t look at me like that.
Your pupils look like firing bullets,
knocking us out one by one by one,
saying you can’t come in
because you never learned how to pray. 

God, don’t look at me like that.
Your iris’s look like vortexs of instability
rolling our ground like an earthquake
telling us to do more,
be more,
pray more,
or we can’t come in.

My fists stop the bullets and together our fists make boulders,
knocking down our insecurities
one by one by one.
If we don’t make it in
then that is okay
because our fists will turn into butterflies
and our hearts will turn into lions
and our bones will turn into the infrastructure of hell
because that is what my preacher told me.

Preacher, don’t look at me like that,
don’t shake your head at my appearance
just because I have ink on my arm doesn’t make me less of a person,
just because I have color on my eyelids,
just because my skirts above my knee,
just because my fists don’t unwind and interlock doesn’t make me less of a person.

I never learned how to pray
because often times the silence preaches louder than the sermon.
God, don’t look at me like that. 


Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Trust

It's so simple,
So basic,
Yet we lack it.
Interaction is nothing without it.
Unable to make a bond because the fact is,
We've missed the point.
The point that connects you and me,
And not just on a family tree;
That connects us all from A to Z,
And not just on eHarmony.

Trust.

Where did it go?
Or did we even have it years ago?
Afraid to go on the right track,
Because we might get stabbed in the back.
Locking our doors and checking it twice,
Like we're Santa Clause on a Christmas blight.
Putting a lock on our phone for protection,
Because your friends may use it as a weapon.
Hiding what belongs to us,
Because we lost our trust in all our lust.
But trusting each other is a must,
Because you cant spell trust without us.

Trust.

A firm belief in the reliability,
Truth,
Ability,
Or strength in someone.
Can you think of anyone?
I am sure you can,
Maybe the one that holds your hand.
But for how long?
I'm sorry but it's true,
People can back-stab you.
But this can change starting with you,
Because if you trust people,
They'll trust you.
You may get hurt but at least you'll live,
With your heart on your sleeve and something to give.

So let's break this cycle of deceit and start this world anew.
It doesn't start with them,
It starts with you.
Trust someone and you will see,
How great this world could be,
For you and me.
It's not that hard so don't make it be,
It's only the fear of the possibility,
Of losing everything.
Don't fear,
Trust.

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

SURVIVAL IN THE MIDST OF IGNORANCE

My prayers are not asking you to
 
save me from my enemy.
 
My children have turned their backs.
 
They praise dance with many
 
Adversaries-
 
When they need be refuking,
 
protesting and rebuking.
 
Among-st those who fight against me-
 
be my offspring.
 
I fear not the man who
 
I already know to be the beast
 
While my eyes follow my historical foe:
 
Those created in my womb,go
 
behind my back sign treaties with known
 
enemies
 
Chiding our valuable place in history. 
 
They do not want to know how they got here-
 
They do not care.The nature 

of the beast consumes them.
 
Eyes full of temptations we 

kept their butts covered,
 
and gave them what we could never have.
 
Instead of gratitude they give us latitude  
 
we cannot reach them.
 
They love the enemy, like a favorite pet-
 
Stroking the dog and biting
 
the hand that feeds them wisdom.
 
We walked miles with no shoes -
 
Prayed for our families-
 
Now our families-prey on us
 
With every thing handed to
 
them through the struggle;
 
Our children render our efforts
 
useless and in vain.
 
Vanity be thou sanity 
 
Consuming life from 

the top shelves in cafe's...
 
Thinking non -sober thoughts-
 
Who knows why we now be despise.
 
Deaf are their ears when they hear our names;
 
Holding us accountable, For the shame. 
 
Never ready for the change.
 
My prayer now is;
 
God save me from my people:
 
The joy that settled in my
 
accomplishments is now
 
unsettled disappointment,
 
disturbing !
 
They want to have 

their cake crumbs
 
and eat them too.
 
Save us from the

 disgrace of how they
 
discount all we've sacrificed - 

We made it through
 
and we have shown our 

strength against all odds
 
How now they praise-

dance with the enemy
 
They drink no more 

from separate fountains
 
Never sat in the balcony-
 
never knew the colored section;
 
Never stood on buses.
 
Those of us who never found a soft
 
place to land in the concrete jungles;
 
 have lined your bottoms with cushion's
 
from the sacrifices and suffering we
 
endured.
 
Watching you again discount us as you
 
leave us to the ridicule of your own judgment.
 
As you praise dance with those
 
who aspire to see your detriment.
 
Never before have so many brave elders
 
have had to watch their own children rob
 
them of their glory and dignity.
 
Even an imbecilic knows when he's better off.
 
That's the sad difference between an
 
slow learner and a fool.
 
A fool never cares nor takes responsibility..
 
The slow learner finally learns.
 
And is delighted to be enlightened.
 
Where the fool continues
 
to waddle blissfully in his own ignorance -
 
Resenting all who shed light on the
 
error of his ways....
 
Those who have his best interest -
 
Become his stumbling block.  
 
Difficult now for them to blame others;
 
With bright lights shining on stupidity--
 
We give them proof-
 
blinded and overwhelmed
 
by the truth-they are not interested our story
 
Never realizing that while their
 
stubborn heads were buried-in the sand.
 
We still have to stand-- guard
 
over their protruding azzes 
 
Until my children have learned  
 
where they fit in on earth,
 
and what they are truly worth
 
they will continue " Praise-
 
Dancing" with the enemies
 
They will continue to be as eaglet's
 
flapping around the yard ,
 
clucking with the chickens...
 
never soaring-never getting off the ground
 
Bewildered by our "diminutive etymology":
 
The Elders and The Ancestors;
 
We look dumbfounded,and mutter....
 
"Where did we go Wrong" ?
 

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

The Conventional Girl

Underneath the sea of trust 
Words shovelled sand in her eyes
The smell traced back a map of hope
Paradise could still not be located

Joy lived far from her earth
Please wake me after my death
For I might have missed the turn 
I did dig my own emergency grave I remember

My dream trails had no brake lights
Bumps after bumps 
Poetry drums speeding eternal crumps 
Every soul bumped into my back seated lips
The road to their ears required constructive rhymes
Poetry police 

Bulldozers bullied opportunities on the pavement of my love
Paradise got dizzy and lost meaningful visions 
Conventionally my heart is one
Sharpened in tubes sharing heart-beats with no lies

I loved loving love
Restricted dreams to stick-away from uneven pants chasing bums 
My mouth opened doors shaming the unshakable love triangle stunts 
Usually conventional uses are unusual 

My heart my grave
The future I paved
The sand glowed like stars in my eyes
Disgraced to blind my visual crafts
My confession

The roots of my strength came in veins
Circulating thoughts 
He made me shoes from manmade bricks
For I walk buildings in my dreams 

Skyscrapers scrubbing the breeze of hope in the sky
She placed her heart in rules
Speak your promise 
I the conventional girl 

© Ray 

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

Opinion


Every one’s got an opinion
We are entitled to our views
But, we won’t all agree the 
Difference often times are 
Huge
Somehow the simpler the 
Problem harder the 
Moot
Layering instead of issues 
Open wounds
And personalized attacks 
Are used
A point of contention is
The deliberate disguising of
The truth 
Distorting facts
Figures assembled by rote
Really there are a lot to be
Desired
Having regards to the distance
Between what had first prompt 
The opinion
And the reasoning that led
To this irrational tirade and suit
A stuck in a bog like situation
Ensue 
Like the dreaded dream state 
Being awake and can’t speak 
Move or do what you want to
While the root rot
The debates rambles on 
Unable to; save quip,
Get a grip on solid ground
Consensus pursuit 

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

How to give birth

Her pregnant brain shattered on concrete styles
I taught her how to give birth

For decades her brain had no experience
She spoke in giggles 
Baby thoughts crawling away from her sheltered smiles

Voices speaking entrances and exits

Her tears were diluted with words
Coloured to give light to unborn emotions
She was too young to mother her intelligence

With stitches around the scent of her dreams 
She had no clue how to give birth 

Eyes were safeguarded in gloves for any greasy guidance
Sharp blades were spared for surgical opinions

She jumped into conclusions 
Everyone saw what’s between her pen and paper

Her abdomen grew thorns
She lost all her baby poems for she birth only homemade babies
Her pregnancy was a secret

Now she mothers the nation 
I taught her how to give birth
She speaks to them in rapid poems
She mothers the nation in pages

(c) Ray

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

This is me

You wake up in the morning to look in the mirror,
To say "This is me".
To Compare yourself to what you think you should be.
"I'm fat.",
"I'm ugly.",
"How can this be?",
"Why did God do this to me?",
You put on some make-up or some acne-cream,
To cover the blemishes that others can see.
But it doesn't mater what others see,
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
And the beholder is me.
So stop annotating,
And start complimenting,
Not on what should be,
But on what is!

You were created in God's image,
Oh.
How.
Powerful.
To see who you really are,
Oh.
How.
Magical.

In that mirror is not,
"I'm fat.",
"I'm ugly.",
But a scientific creation from stardust,
Something that's way beyond us.
And what's inside is something so unique,
So special,
Because no one else has it,
It's.
Like.
Magic.

It's you!

You are the most amazing thing to walk on this Earth.
With the ability to wake up and show your worth.
So why wake up and talk negative?
When you could wake up and smile.
Why not be happy for a while?
Why try to please everyone else,
When all you have to do is be yourself?

People say "What matters is on the inside.",
And you say "But look at my outside.".
And I say there is no good side,
You as a whole is the creation,
There is no separation.
Each person with 46 chromosomes working in perfect symphony,
Destroying themselves with negativity.
Just Stop!

You are beautiful because you are rare,
Because no one else can compare.
Your face,
Your nose,
Your eyes,
With your sense of humor to comprise,
Someone no one else can match.
Try to make it in a lab...
Try throw it down the hatch.
You compare yourself to everyone else,
When you are one of a kind.
Why can't you get that in your mind?
Diamonds aren't perfect so why should you be?
Beauty is not symmetry.
Look in the mirror and what do you see?
The beauty that you are...
This is me...

Details | Spoken Word Poem | |

I Spit Fire

Ride me not I am a dreamer not a beamer/
I am more than gimmicks in these linguistic lyrics/
Check out my Bio sprinkled with lyrical Bios/

I got shot for walking like a thug in my poetry/
Igniting punch lines on poetic engines my mind elevated up tall over skyscrapers/
My footsteps curse robbers mesmerized bold gestures of counterfeit dreamers/ 
 
Rhyming on street headaches pinching gory dreams and views/  
On a trip to success I did get raided mistaken for future paychecks/  
I am a dreamer stripping brains naked until secrets are secretly exposed and noted/ 
    
Unlike your rules my poetry is barbecued bubble wrapped in lawbreaking clues/  
My tongue ejects ammunitions roasting ears with lyrical T-bone steaks serving pothole brains/
Everyone loves free verses donated to squeaky voices/

I spit flames spooky bloody shame against fame chasers on lame marathon street names/
I stole shows in dreamy rap-pose prose poems in slam-pose yes i got popped/    
So I flap my gums while trash talking with my fingers in sign language rhymes/
I own self edification not a gun why infiltration in my poetry/   

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