This is a slam poem I wrote when I was 15 years old, which was eight years ago. I've performed it for over 500 people.
(the majority of them sitting together at the same time)
hope you enjoy this one...
Eyes open onto bright lighted rooms-
green walls.
Dawn's in the making
you can see me waking!
Stumble, trip and turn--
blowing air, that's blowing hair
faster than the day before-
white shirt-blue jeans-red sneakers
all clean!
Milk and Post, forget the toast
the number 42 is coming!
Down the day, seize the moment
1.25$ and coffee spilt on it...
Reaching destinations past
uncovering new cement
and with that new beat
went this month's rent?
Walking down alley ways
finding new cafes
connected to boutiques
connected to bookstores
connected to last dollars
spent on getting your
significant other
other
other
other?
another?
back.
And cool cats with backwards hats and polo jeans walk on the scene...
surrounded by the click clack of backpack strings and
tattered golden wings, where daddy didn't teach them to fly on their own!
Each step I take is down a new path of life
I can't seem to find that road less traveled
and the wallet in my back pocket buldges
but don't doubt that one swift move
from the hand of a not so suspected man
could change it back to flat.
And walk faster past the last old man on the sidewalk
begging for Change
with dollar signs in his eyes.
He smells of life long addiction and
hope-less-ness.
And i don't try...
it's not a question
he air force ones
triple five
they like my ass.
and with a rolling by
of skate boards
i'm reminded of my past.
days when raves and mr. ragz
was for them tags, and i was just
a sweet, street swinger--
but for real, it's always been
those urban beats that
got this girl to tap her feet.
And as my mind travels
i find a key to city
with more faces and races
than grand central station.
the number of people around
reflects the droplets of nervous
sweat on my brow, as a i enter
a crowd of..
MISPLACED LOVE.
So I get back on the 42
pass by my old school,
new school
you knew
that home for me was anywhere
where love did not mean
nights fleeting
into superficial meetings
with not so significant
significants.
Or waiting around for a friend
who has forgot to remember.
He said..
"Girl, you'll be the illest poet ever!"
"YOU BREATHE IT SOUNDS CLEVER."
His words resound in my mind
like bullets on a playground top
on the 42--last stop
my stop
mind stops.
Back in my room...
where the bright green walls
remind me of everything
but still
nothing at all....
