Slam Poetry - Tumblr Posts
and I never asked to be a poet
but when I don't write
I always make a line
it's just a quick decision
whether I cut it
or snort it
and I could make myself bleed
or I could make a living
writing these sad lyrics
and shouting at strangers
doing both is working out
for how long? guess I'll try
to find out, and hopefully
make it out alive
"lyricist" - zero (me)
[it's yet another song draft rather than a poem but ayyyy writing block!!!! ]
what is a poet if not writing
what if not dead then
my hands ache when I grip a pen
but I refuse to let go
if there is pain there's something to cling to
then there is something to write about
if my hands break from the strain so be it
I will use them until I can't use them further
so may the ache never stop
so may the poets never die
so may the fire burn
so may I still try
• old bandages - zero (me)
godless children in your churches!
and an atheist f*ggot is teaching them about life!
they are both so dirty and unworthy!
the priest asks for kids who wanna say a prayer
say it loud and proud for the whole church
in front of a microphone for all to see
a dozen little hands shoot up immediately in your eye sight
all of those tiny tired eyes sparkle with hope and faith
for they are still to learn that not even god loves them
the priest does not choose any of the precious children with tired eyes
he chooses a few ones that are dressed appropriately
for church and for the weather
for their age and current fashion trends
a boy who almost never talks drops his head and murmurs
"he's never chosen me yet"
oh is this boy to learn that it takes more than luck to be chosen!
an atheist is asked where god sleeps at night
the answer is far away, just in case
we were to riot at night and he'd have to take blame
an atheist is asked how do we get to heaven?
the answer is, how would I know
god has stated he hates people who love like me
my mother would tell you we get there beautiful and perfect
and I don't believe in your fairytale god
but I believe there's no more ways a child full of hope can be beautiful
but if there's a heaven
if there's a god listening
let death be kinder to these children.
let there be heaven, even if just for them.
let there be warm clothes and shoes without holes
let there be a death, kinder than men
let death be kinder than priests, who can only complain
how unraised they are,
as if we didn't know before
let death take their hands gently and not leave any scabs
let heaven be a place for a better start
• "kids tend to ask hard questions" - zero (me)
there seems to be a universal understanding
of the fact that no good life was a good story
good lifes make good examples and I make
poetry and bonfire stories that can't go unheard
and I am glad for all the harm that was done
to me and only to me, for maybe it was better
to make my life worse and my poems relatable
noone reads poetry when they're alright, and
more so noone ever writes poetry when happy
maybe the stars aligned in this way for every poet
maybe god made us with a bigger purpose, than
any mortal happiness, made us for eternal things
written in ink and lived through in our own blood
- zero (me)
[ I finished writing my poetry book and I just know I will hate all of them in a year or two. I am never proud of my poetry. my mind is a burn book ]
the more I've yearned for you
the more I would look to the moon
on these nights i couldn't stop smiling
I told the moon all the things I love
about you
and now you know about most of it
and somehow with it I've found
myself smiling at the sun so much
more often than before, I would tell it
that I'm happy to be awake,
that I am happy to be in love
• may the moon keep you warm while I can't - zero (me)
around the dinner table
comes a story not so old
that they think does not
resonate anymore
about crooked floorboards
and cold water for months
and saving all your money
in order to save yourself
and when it ends they
hand you some cash since
these times are past us
but you know you're wise
and so put money in a jar
hidden from everyone
you have to save up
in order to save yourself
the times have never and
will never change
• savings jar - zero (me)
on another night I have to spend without you
the brightest one of them all, with hope in the air
even with my friends around, I promise you
to use the knowledge given to me by past lovers
and once the sky lights up with fireworks again
I shall call you and tell you all my love, as
the first thing in the new year should mean
the whole world, and nothing does, like you do
• Mel, my light - zero (me)
I can't believe it all
how great I've been
and I've been
sleeping thru all nights
without shedding a tear
and I've been content
in the choices I've made
I haven't skipped
a single breakfast in a while
and I prayed every night
without swearing at all
I've gone out with friends
almost every single day
and I came back before
it could get too dark
and I've been fine I swear
I'm just a little tired
but it's nothing
tonight I'll go
way earlier to bed
• lies I told my mother - zero (me)
actually, yet again it's a song bit, but I thought I'd post it
gone are the times
when you couldn't sleep
not knowing where I was.
and now this home again
is just as cold as i have
remembered.
I come back from the snowfall
to see my brother leaving and
to you sleeping soundly as ever
and I cannot be upset at any of that.
but I just wish growing old wasn't so hard
• "turning seventeen" - zero (me)
everything is changing and it feels like spring came too quickly
it's sunny and bright outside this weird February
and everything seems to be changing so rapidly
and I've come to realise everything is dependant on a perspective
when I saw an angel from a weird angle
the bright sun making it's features distorted
and lately I've been cold in more ways than just one
and today I felt like crying about everything
and I did when you held me at a bus stop and told me you're grateful to have me
and we talked about the future
or the lack of it
in the time we had until your ride home came
both decided on a silent life and nice cafes
I need you to know you're a good kid
and I know you're going places
• places better than this one - zero (me)
(on friends who hold your head like they're afraid of hurting you in any way. on having no future but still hoping for at least another summer. I came back home with cold finger tips and this poem scribbled on my hands. I told you about my ideas for my poetry but now you're in one.)
i think I will die wondering
what you all really think of me
maybe on my funeral
give a speech that's literal
my last words probably will be
"I don't think you even knew me"
I'm so afraid to tell you anything
I guess I will die wondering
/
the spring had came
what have we became?
I don't tell you anything anymore
we're right back where we've been before
looking out the window
I think it's even worse now
to contemplate my death
think of the last breath
when the sun is shining until late
it's something I grew to hate
/
so many questions in my head
and poems you will never read
why the hell do you even like me?
I ask myself that constantly
it's not that I don't trust you all
it's just that I can take the fall
once I'm gone you cannot cry
don't take the fall, just learn to fly
/
you tell me how you see me, still
it does not make sense to me
the most random of compliments
what have you even meant?
it just proves to me furthermore
how little you got to know me for
I know that it's my fault
your trust came to a halt
I wish I could tell you what I think
and when I try I just shrink
in on myself and just decide
it's gonna come out when I die
• you never knew me/things I don't tell you - zero (me)
[yes, it's a draft of a song. yes, i probably will never finish it. yes, i'm not okay. yes, that's the only reason i came back to writing]
some time ago already, a month maybe
a cold night and a blue apartment
just the kitchen lit up and just me inside
the buzz of the microwave
and the holler of the wind
and the shake of my hand
and the poorly executed confession
"it's not back, not really. it's just
my brain is a scumbag and it just
wants me to go down, and i just
can't tell it to shut up every time,
you know"
and you didn't before
but you tried your best in the moment
you told me you will be there always
and I appreciated it, like no other
I swear I did
and you told me
"please call me if this ever gets worse"
no idea why, it came back like a curse
you still don't know, noone does, actually
I'll tell you the truth only when you ask for it
because you don't need this in your life
on another cold night, in a lit up apartment
I'm telling you goodnight, far too early
• "tonight I'm going to sleep hungry" - zero [me]
apparently I have 100 likes on this account, which is not exactly a lot considering how many things I posted but I'm still happy about it [:
let yourself be dragged into a routine
a coma like state of early mornings
and too late good night texts
third places only you know exist
and whole days filled with the sound
of utter and gut wretching silence
question the romanticism of your situation
as you wake up hungry but content
go on about your chores like nothing is wrong
avoid having meaningful conversations
sew new things that surely won't even fit soon
apologise to your cat like it's your own mother
go to river banks and drink black coffee
contemplate throwing yourself into the traffic
just to avoid hearing news about new dead kids
stare into your mirror long enough to disort the image
hold onto your ribs like it's your dead beat father
fill yourself with regret like it's gonna take away the hunger
let yourself be dragged into a routine
let yourself fade away slowly
let yourself be forgotten
• "a break from everything" - zero (me)
"I want to go home"
a statement embedded in my mind
"but not there"
always following right behind
not to trembling hands without a reason
not to breaths that feel like treason
it's not the fault of anyone
but train tracks and itchy seats are more home
than the so called one of mine
so i buy tickets costing more than my life
homesickness twisting in my throat like a knife
and i search for it everywhere i go
from any trails of me i try to forgo
hope waiting for me just out of town
knows i will never let her down
• never ending motion - zero (me)
the first tab I always open on accident is the bus schedule
truly annoying when you're just trying to Google something but,
your finger always slips and somehow you're now checking the next bus stop and
no matter how long I stay inside I just always have that thought of
what if I just left?
it's not like my family ever really cared to ask where I'm going before
it's not like it's an issue as long as I'm on curfew
and truly, it wouldn't be any problem to just run
yet the question still stands, why is it the only thing I can?
why do I never take both my feet off the floor,
why do I hesitate to take my shoes off
why is my backpack always half empty?
it's an old habit really
but what can I do about it now
that all my muscles know is how to run
that all I ever remember is how to breathe
and how long of a chase I can give
and phone numbers of all my half shady half lovely friends with an unoccupied couch
I would never run away
not fully
for I can never commit to a place even if it's good for me
so I will always run
but I will never get away
• down to earth - zero (me)
“This joke that I heard in Arabic hurts just as much in English, and French, and in any other dialect.” - Emi Mahmoud
Download Emi’s poem here!
I'm so tired,
So fucking tired.
I want a reason to change
Because I can't change myself.
I loathe myself.
And refuse to treat it better.
I've never known to do anything,
But self destruct.
So give me a reason to change,
For the better.
Please!
Without hurting anyone in the process.
Him.
Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!
Him.
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He would’ve read my work.
Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through.
Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not.
But he read it anyway, he always did.
I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.
Would he ever miss my writing?
Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet.
Does he even remember half of what he read from me?
To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time.
Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?
Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much.
Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–
Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style?
My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all.
And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.
Would he be damned?
It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.
Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”
But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table.
I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness.
I’m not alone.
I’m far from it.
But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum.
Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like.
And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?
Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily.
Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to.
He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh.
What a joke.
Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.
Why?
Why not? Why else? For I will never know.
Because it is not worth knowing.
Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place?
Does he remember the puncture wounds?
Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?
Would he understand it?
…
Sigh
…
A fresh wound appears.
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