slam poetry
Slam poetry: that magical mix of rhythm and rhyme.
Extra Credit
Extra credit, and how it serves me, whether I be a dutiful student, or a “flunkee,” it may round off my 4.0 GPA, and as such I will be pleased, or it may give me enough class credit for possibly, a D, I may work my poor fingers to the bone, etching graphite with no other wretched hand than my own, into a sea of loose leafs duly entitled “Fibrous Dysplasia of the Bone,” and how, I, moan, at the thought of my effort being reduced, diminished, ebbed and waned because of the effortless, I write notes and I put it in a socket, a locket under lock and key, forever protected so it can better serve my memory, while others write notes and take none of those precautions, they may summarize the lesson and then throw it in their back pocket, to me a holy scripture, a parchment of mass proportions, left to rot next to someones keester, to slip out onto the street and educate the masses with mediocrity, to be spun around countless times on a never ending cycle called “cold wash,” shocking really, when you realize that in terms of poverty and it’s cycle, with this attitude, they are that very lesson, doomed to be written by it’s maker, unable to change, trapped, a few sentences shy of a passed exam, I have studied for countless hours, given my soul to that godforsaken manhole called an “institution,” and never once have I complained until now, they say knowledge is power, yet I have none, as if I need college just to be someone, I have tried my hardest to get where I am, just to chase people who have gave half my effort, if that, I find myself cowering in my own shadow, and my shadow cowering among others, “You are the sum total of all of your choices,” they say, then why am I anything other than what I’ve always wanted to be, extra credit, and how it serves me, whether I be a dutiful student, or a “flunkee.”
By Charles Oregano7 years ago in Poets
Want to Know Something?
You want to know something? It’s not that difficult to notice you've fucked up. Let me clarify. When you know you fucked up and act as if you didn’t, it won’t fool anybody. You can fool yourself into thinking you didn’t fuck up, but you still fucked up. When you act as if nothing happened it lays on your eyes as it reflects the objects facing it. You can’t hide what a soul has desperately grieved over for so long. You can’t live a separate life from the ones carrying your eyes and holding your grief as they fight your battle. You drown yourself the more you attempt to breathe underwater. You sink and can’t swim without a gasp of air you so desperately wish you could picture without suffocating. You have the desire to reach your hand out not knowing whether a hand will grasp onto your sorrows or if you can even hold a hand long enough to reach the shore and realize it’s gone. You. You’re gone.
By Abstract Of The Mind7 years ago in Poets
