Tag Archives: spoken word

dare to speak

Dare to speak,
in a time when our voices
are either off the rails
or have begun to trail off
and the meaning has
sunk so far down into our chests
that our words not only drip,
they slip from our fingertips
down onto
the paper trails we leave behind in books.
We’re wrestling with ourselves,
like our hearts
have become
the rope between our lungs
pulling at each other
retracting in a tangled tug of war.
This is where poetry
should be our weapon of choice
something imperfectly splintered
meant to stick it in and break it off,
but we’re divided by like minded opinions
those invisible lines
where passports get cut
from the same trees as textbooks.
We’re choking on all the things
we should have said,
mocking ourselves
to make other people laugh.
Losing control our identities,
we are the individual masses
still trying to come together
by comparing our histories.
We’re looking for our pasts
like a path might bring us together
through tighter hands
where our fingers
have stopped holding each other
and now
cross each other over
covering the things we swear by
the way promises overlap
and memories intermingle,
all woven into
the things barely based on actual events.

I want to hear the words
that never leave your thoughts.

I want to know something
you’ve known all along.

I want to feel the things
that only you can teach.

I want to hear what you’re afraid to say.

I like beer and cigarettes

I like beer and cigarettes

Liquid Voices

Water pours like the choices we make every day,

dripping into place down faces that’re too happy, or too sad

to really know what’s going on.

We’re committed to the things we say,

only to be committed by the way we say it.

But today,

my voice is a liquid that drips with opinions

that spark like gasoline.

It forms like the puddles who’s ripples reflect the faces

of anyone standing over them,

but sometimes I speak like a dog marking it’s territory,

or I’m just hinting at the beginning

of a never-ending story.

In these lives we all want a little glory,

we all want to save someone else’s life,

but for me

I cant even see to save myself

and when I speak

I spit

and get carried away with the details to the point

to where the point gets lost

like money to the cost

of the things that I don’t even need.

As if all I ever wanted was to bleed,

because I’ve been screaming whispers from across this room

and you still cant hear me

and I’m drowning in my own description

still wondering how I forgot to swim,

I thought it was like riding a bike.

But in minding my own business I’ve taken this too far

and it feels like I’m only making sense now

when I’m talking to myself.

I am that tree that falls in the forest,

and the rest of this get’s left open to interpretation,

like I were making estimations for the level of perpetration

it might take to change the tone

of my t-shirt

that’s clinging to my body language

as if it were dying to say something.

We are no different that the liquid we sweat,

we take the path of least resistance across our own bodies

where pointing out where we’ve all gone wrong

for some reason

lands us right between pointing the finger

and giving the finger

and only hatred seems to linger

when love is what keeps us away.

But this voice speaks life

that pours like a liquid

that drips with opinions that spark like gasoline,

but I want to speak the way rivers become waterfalls

and are reborn into oceans,

I want the kind of words I speak

to pour like syrup and cover every topic that I know,

but maybe that’s why I sugarcoat things.

So rather than finding the right words

I think I might find something to say,

because there are times

when I feel so old

it’s like every time I blink

days go by

and these eyes have already started giving me away,

squinting just to see a little better

where it’s like this life just wants to hurt you

and remind us that we’re organic

and after all the things that could naturally go wrong with our bodies,

look at us.

We come up with so many more ideas.

So this has got me thinking

that if I’m lucky enough

I might live long enough

to one day carry my lunch back home with me in a catheter bag,

because why are we born to live

if the way we live dictates the way we die

and now I’m starting to shy away from these days,

like if I could place my life into a snow globe bubble

then I might stretch this thing out

for so far and so thin

that you’d barely even notice it,

but this voice is this life

and I breathe the words I speak

and I want to let it drip with opinions

that spark like gasoline.


Days crack open like eggs over frying pans,

they leak into the future like the past had hands

large enough to cup them

and carry them out like the great plans

you can’t see through,

but must be seen through to the end.

We’re spending our lives knowing only

that something needs to be handed down,

something we can be proud of

rather than what we’ve already left behind.

This legacy of hand-me-downs

that only begin to fit

the moment we’ve begun to grow out of them.

Out of Context

Your hands are the softest part of your body

and your mouth echoes violence

in notes too loud for anyone to hear.

This relationship is reaching limits beyond relaxation

and I still don’t even know your name,

only the fact that you love strawberries

lingers like a wanted expectation

that glows like a bad idea.