I wanna do a slam poem about this for school, but I don’t know how to write it, like I don’t understand what I should do for it, I understand RU-vid isn’t rlly school but I need help-
A LETTER TO THE PLAYGROUND BULLY, FROM ANDREA, AGE 8 ½ maybe there are cartwheels in your mouth maybe your words will grow up to be gymnasts maybe you have been kicking people with them by accident I know some people get a whole lot of rocking in the rocking chair and the ones who don't sometimes get rocks in their voice boxes, become slingshots. maybe you think my heart looks like a baby squirrel. but guess what you absolutely missed when you told the class I have head lice Because guess what I a hundred percent absolutely do not have lice and even if I do it is a fact that head lice prefer clean heads over dirty ones so I am clean as a whistle on a tea pot. my mother says it is totally fine if I blow off steam as long as i speak in an octave my kindness can still reach. my kindness knows mermaids never ever miss their legs in the water ‘cause there are better ways to move through the ocean than kicking. so guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record ‘cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you cannot hear it when we speak. my mother says some people have heartbeats that are knocking on doors that will never ever open, and I know my heart is a broken freezer chest That’s why I cant keep anything frozen. so no, I am not "always crying." I am just thawing outside the lines. and even if I am "always crying" it is a fact that salt is the only reason everything floats so good in the dead sea. and just because no one ever passes notes to me doesn't mean I am not super duper. in fact, my super duper might be a buoy or a paper boat the next time your nose is stuck up the river ‘cause it is a fact that our hearts stop every for a mili-second every time we sneeze and some people's houses have too much dust. some people's fathers are like attics I've heard attics have monsters in their walls and shaky stares. if I lived in a house with attic I think I'd nightmare a burglar in my safety chest Or maybe I'd look for rest in the sticks and stones ‘cause my mother said a kid can only swallow so much punch before he's drunk on his own fist but the only drunk I ever known was sleeping in the alley behind my church and jesus turned water into his wine so even god has his bad days but on your bad days couldn't you just say "hey I am having a bad day," instead of telling me I'm stupid or poor, That I dress like a boy ‘cause maybe I am a boy AND a girl maybe my name is Andrea Andrew. so what. it is a fact that bumblebees have hair on their eyeballs and people, also, should comb though everything they see. like an anchorman is not a sailor. like the clouds might be a pillow fight. like my mother said, every bird perched on a telephone wire decides the direction of its flight by the conversations running through its feet so I know every thing i speak can make hurricanes in other people's weather veins or shine their shiny shine so maybe sometime if somebody would sit beside me on the bus I could say, "guess what, it is a fact that manatees have vocal chords Even though they don’t have ears. Just like Beethoven played music even when he could no longer hear. and I know every belt that has hit someone's back is still a belt that was built to hold something up. and it is fact that Egyptians slept on pillows made of stone but it's not hard for me to dream that maybe one day you'll write me back like the day I wrote the lightening bug to say, I smashed my mason jar and I threw away the lid. I didn't want to take a chance that I'd grow up to be a war. I want to be a belly dance or an accordion or a pogo stick or the fingerprints the mason leaves in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here, that he built a roof over someone's head to keep the storm from their faith, my mother says that's why we all were born. and I think she's right. so write back soon. sincerely yours.
A LETTER TO THE PLAYGROUND BULLY, FROM ANDREA, AGE 8 ½ maybe there are cartwheels in your mouth maybe your words will grow up to be a gymnasts maybe you have been kicking people with them by accident I know some people get a whole lot of rocking in the rocking chair and the ones who don’t sometimes get rocks in their voice boxes, and their voice boxes become slingshots. maybe you think my heart looks like a baby squirrel. but you absolutely missed when you told the class I have head lice ‘cause I one hundred percent absolutely do not have head lice and even if I do it is a fact that head lice prefer clean heads over dirty ones so I am clean as a whistle on a tea pot. my mother says it is totally fine if I blow off steam as long as i speak in an octave my kindness can still reach. my kindness knows mermaids never ever miss their legs in the water ‘cause there are better ways to move through the ocean than kicking. so guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record ‘cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you can’t hear it when we speak. my mother says most people have heartbeats that are knocking on doors that will never open, and I know my heart is a broken freezer chest ‘cause I can never keep anything frozen. so no, I am not “always crying.” I am just thawing outside of the lines. and even if I am “always crying” it is a fact that salt is the only reason everything floats so good in the dead sea. and just ‘cause no one ever passes notes to me doesn’t mean I am not super duper. in fact, my super duper might be a buoy or a paper boat the next time your nose gets stuck up the river ‘cause it is a fact that our hearts stop every for a mili-second every time we sneeze and some people’s houses have too much dust. . some people’s fathers are like attics I’ve heard attics have monsters in their walls and shaky stares. I think if I lived in a house with attic I’d nightmare a burglar in my safety chest and maybe I’d look for rest in the sticks and stones ‘cause my mother says a person can only swallow so much punch before he’s drunk on his own fist but the only drunk I ever knew was sleeping in the alley behind our church and jesus turned water into his wine so even god has his bad days but on your bad days couldn’t you just say “hey I’m having a bad day,” instead of telling me I’m stupid or poor, or telling me I dress like a boy ‘cause maybe I am a boy AND a girl maybe my name is Andrea Andrew. so what. it is a fact that bumblebees have hair on their eyes and humans, also, should comb though everything they see. like an anchorman is not a sailor. like the clouds might be a pillow fight. like my mother says, “every bird perched on a telephone wire will listen to the conversations running through its feet to decide the direction of its flight.” so I know every word we speak can make hurricanes in people’s weather veins or shine their shiny shine so maybe sometime you could sit beside me on the bus and I could say, “guess what, it is a fact that manatees have vocal chords but do not have ears. and Beethoven made music even when he could no longer hear. and I know every belt that has hit someone’s back is still a belt that was built to hold something up. and it is fact that Egyptians slept on pillows made of stone but it’s not hard for me to dream that maybe one day you’ll write me back like the day I wrote the lightening bug to say, I smashed my mason jar and I threw away the lid. I didn’t want to take a chance that I’d grow up to be a war. I want to be a belly dance or an accordion or a pogo stick or the fingerprints the mason left in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here, that he built a roof over someone’s head to keep the storm from their faith, my mother says that’s why we all were born. and I think she’s right. so write back soon. sincerely yours
love it, you are brilliant and you seek to change this physical plane through your best work of art, your life. I cannot think of a life better lived, but I am not above this life, so I am not an expert by any means. Maybe one day?
"The math's not on my side, 10 stitches and one lie. I swear I wasn't trying to die, I just wanted to see what my pulse looked like from the inside." Whoa.
"I did realize that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it That we are not tragedies stranded here beneath it That if our hearts really broke Every time we fell for love I'd be able to offer you confetti by now."
Why is it every one of these "slam poets" seem to be so full of anger? Anger is not beautiful, nor does it inspire positively. And to call this poetry is to call mass produced prints, original art. If this is poetry, its the death of art. And if this is beautiful, this is the death of beauty. Whining is not inspirational, no matter how big a victim you are.
"I know every belt that has hit someone's back was still a belt that was made to hold something up" "My kindness knows mermaids never... miss their legs in the water because there are better ways to move through an ocean than kicking." "I want to be... the fingerprints the mason leaves behind in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here... that he built a roof over someone's head to keep the storm from their faith... that is why we all were born..." Yeah she really sounds like she's bubbling over with all sorts of malicious feelings.
I did not say that "this was full of anger." I said, "Why is it every one of these "slam poets" seem to be so full of anger? " I stick by those words. This lady is still angry about elementary school and some perceived social injustices. I find it quite boring and uninspiring. Zero talent there.
Verbal abuse is also about expressing emotions. Is that poetry? :) I joke, but my point is; why does it have to be whiney? Can they express their emotions without coming off as self important and victimized? I once read a study done on seminar speakers. Despite what the seminar speaker said, whether the study they presented was solid or not, if they were like-able by the audience, then the audience rated them as good speakers. I find myself not liking their work. In this case, I also don't respect or find them to be like-able. It's all subjective of course but I think deep down, we find optimism (as long as its not a manic optimism) to be like-able. And sorrowful people to be boring. When they talk about playground bullies I keep thinking, "No wonder they didn't like you on the playground, you were probably whining just like now. Quit the whining!"
i have seen all your videos and I'm proud to say 'm a huge fan.I love everything about your pieces. i relate to a couple and i think evverything is so raw. i adore your writing.
To your first point-it is called blaming the victim. We can recognize it by the focus on the individual rather than on the system...which I imagine was your point. Whenever we focus on the individual rather than the genesis of the problem, we miss an opportunity to seek real solutions.
"When the sand in the desert has been melted down to glass and our reflection isn't something we can stand to look at does the white flag make for a perfect blindfold?" Gets me every time.
