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Best Slam Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Slam poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of slam poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Slam Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Slam poems are below this new poems list.

Mantle Place Phish Funk Slam by Flaherty, Christopher
Whats your poison slam by Flaherty, Christopher
Sticks and stones Slam mean girls cruel boys by Flaherty, Christopher
Slammed Slam by Trim, Nick
Rotten Luck Slam by Flaherty, Christopher
Feathered Field of Dreams Unfulfilled Slam by Flaherty, Christopher
Good Grief Slam Champ by Flaherty, Christopher
A Slam Pam Kill-o-gram by Trim, Nick
Slam the poetry by wade, fauxcroft
The Number 1 Slam Poem by Trim, Nick

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The Best Slam Poems

Details | Slam Poem |

To all the heart breakers -a ZOMBIE's valentine

Wouldn't you rather~

Wouldn't you rather be dead?
Maybe shoot yourself in the head?
Over my dead heart, I'd never want to be a zombie like you.
The sight of your limbs are rotten all the time.
All synonyms say of you looks like a 3 legged swine.
Go ahead and do us all a favor, 
hide and stash yourself away from all your neighbor. 
I think I'd rather have my eyes stuck with glue
So I won't have to look at you
When it comes to family friends, you ain't got none.
You're always gonna be called the lonely retarded one.
Who could ever love a face like yours.
not even your mother see's pass your gores 
No need for privacy when you pee
Go ahead and take a leak and drown yourself in the sea.
Don't think for one second you are irresistible 
Love making with a zombie is impossible.

Wouldn't you rather be dead?
maybe shoot yourself in the head

The time to kill yourself is at hand.
Slicing your wrist is what we recommend.  
Cut your tongue off, don't want to hear you squeal.   
Blood all over, your face is no big deal
A sword or machete will only pick up the pace
I wanna see your guts pop out your mid-waist 
Contaminated objects is a must
Anything to remove your face of disgust.
The easy part is the best
Once you are gone we will all feel blessed,
The flaw of your existence  
Is what keeps us all in distance 

Wouldn't you rather be dead?
maybe shoot yourself in the head

Close your eyes and die
No one wants to hear you cry
You said you wanted to be loved
believe me~ you're better off unloved
I say do yourself off
Anyways you've always had it rough...
Go ahead and scream
This is not a dream
Now see how you make me feel
All I want is for you to end your ugly ordeal.
I will praise this day of course
Knowing soon you'll be a rotting corpse.

happy valentine ~ TO: All My DEADBEAT X-es from Texas.

Details | Slam Poem |

Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Bread

Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Bread
       ( First of Three Poem Trilogy )

I

I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.

Nor do I fancy to become a bichon frise,
beholding to those with comminatory ways.
Finding some will cut you off at the knees
as a criticaster dariole for fugacious pay.
Floccinaucinihilipilification,
judged by Flews that chatter in morbid tune. 
Give me saudade and a sandy beach vacation
with very little scrippage in the month of June.

Aye, no snollygoster soucouyant will do,
for my heart and soul begs sun-grazing songs.
Not a superbious umbriferous critic or two,
with the poet's soul this body truly belongs.
Seeking no uroboros legacy my ink doth stain
as a soulcatcher with a selkie as a muse.
Alone, in this rawky terrain my life will remain
for solitude and honor my poet's heart doth choose.

I've no problem with bardolatry fans
their barmecide and oft humorous rants.
Give me golden words not found in empty cans,
not bawbee's from those with sad, empty pants.
Truly I enjoy, bright golden attic wit,
creators of canorous verse that soars.
Those I may share bumbo and be a big hit,
not with callithumpians that so sorely bores.

Robert J. Lindley, 3-21-2018
Rhyme

Note: 
Make of this what you will,
I give thus and surely shall send no bill
Yet in my poet's heart my soul oft grieves
for the Autumn colors not the decaying leaves
For the heart that yearns to write and truly give
and the mortal soul that writes to live
With inked symbols and a mind tired of toil
wading through worlds filled with pride and hidden turmoil
I write with purpose to give to others, not to take
tho' oft my poet's heart over burning coals some gladly rake.

Details | Slam Poem |

BLEEDING LOVE - COLLABORATION WITH POET DESTROYER A

Pierced by shards of shattered glass 
Deeper and deeper you stab me 
With lies and venomous words 
Dissecting my heart piece by piece 
Crushed like the petals of a withered rose 
I’m dying … 
Scarlet blood seeps into my very soul 
Drip 
Drip 
Drip 
Into pieces and a bloody mess 
I scarified secrets; 
Secrets you tore and tore, 
Gracing a fake friendship, 
Trust tossed like a sweaty towel 
Now karma a poisonous snake 
You plea ... 
To be on death row, decomposing 
Dripping into the night -- Silently 
fading and fading 
Stung by my viper lips, 
smiling 
grinning 
laughing 
Until you are no more


A Poet Destroyer Collaboration

Collaboration Celebration Contest
7th August 2015

Details | Slam Poem |

Shells of Alamein lest we forget

Lest we forget

When the Shelling 
And the Din of gunfire
Finally stopped 

His mind was shot
A hollow broken shell
Stood

Crooked in the corner of some foreign land
Every boy and man befell unto
Inspite of class or rank 
Come 1,
Come all 
To walk the plank

Into no mans land
Gods hands

As the marching band grew silenced 
Drowned out by the violence 

Of brethren slain,
Into the Dunes of Alamein

Details | Slam Poem |

Guess Who's Back, Offence And Pain Aint Two Of The Same

Who'd have thought words make them react like this,
failing to see my wit, just the unattractiveness.
An eye for crudeness that'll overpower the humorous.
I'm sure within their brain a tumour lives.

Has your face ever felt the force of a fist?
It'll twist your perception like a contortionist,
because offence and pain aint two of the same.
One requires staples so that the blood's contained,
the other's just a thought you'd rather not maintain.
I get that neither are a source used to entertain,
but at the end of the day crudeness aint pain.

Offence is just a nuisance you choose to refuse,
it aint a scar, a cut or a bruise.
Scars are something you can never remove,
but when I got mine I made jokes that amused.
So can you help me now please and give me some clues,
when I'd been hit by a knuckle duster I was less confused.
Do you really feel pain when I'm crude and rude?

Please explain how words upset and leave you offended.
How does it feel and how do you end it?
Is it just simple natural sounds that you can't stand?
Compare that to soldiers losing limbs and can't stand.
If this is you I've just one thing to say my friend,
your life is easy if words drive you around the bend.

POTD
5/7/2018

Details | Slam Poem |

Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.

Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.

With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.

Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.

With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.

The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.

Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.

The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.

In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.

So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.

Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................

We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.

She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.

Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.

Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.

The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.

Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.

How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.

Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.

Best Slam Poems | Poetry

New Slam Poems

The Best Slam Poems

Like A Girl

To all the heart breakers -a ZOMBIE's valentine

I Wore Your Skin

PINK LACE

Playing Human

Floccinaucinihilipilification And Very Little Bread

Ungrateful child

Across The Border

Diamond Cut

Pretty Poet

Anxiety

my only hope

Poet -This Poem is About You

Toilet Bowl Committee

Who Am I

The Unknown

This Buds For You

A Legend In His Own Mind

BLEEDING LOVE - COLLABORATION WITH POET DESTROYER A

Mental Hospital Bills

Shells of Alamein lest we forget

Guess Who's Back, Offence And Pain Aint Two Of The Same

This is me

Woodstock

Wall Street