https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DY8ynr2cSTs

I always go back to this poem, it perfectly exemplifies the rawness of poetry, the breathless silence words evoke, and how we feel inspired in the end, without knowledge of why, of how. The art of spoken word poetry captivates me, not only because of its manipulation of words crafted into metaphors and rhymes, but also its ability to reveal the struggles and aspirations within one that allows others to grasp a glimpse into one’s life. With words, each person carries a story, and it is a good one.

discover a world of poets

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rsp_3uz__zs&list=PLupalylLGWv-IOvl3F9WrFGgPQYpVEzJJ

One of my favorite poems ever written by Ted Baker

Paper People

I like people.

I like some paper people.

They’d be purple paper people.

Maybe pop up purple paper people.

Proper pop up purple paper people.

‘How do you prop up pop up purple paper people?’

I hear you cry. Well I…

I’d probably prop up proper pop up purple paper people

with a proper pop up purple people paperclip,

but I’d pre-prepare appropriate adhesives as alternatives,

a cheeky pack of blu tack just in case the paper slipped.

I could build a pop up metropolis.

but i wouldn’t wanna deal with all the paper people politics.

paper politicians with their paper-thin policies,

broken promises without appropriate apologies.

there’d be a little paper me, and a little paper you,

and we’d watch paper TV and it would all be paper view.

we’d watch the poppy paper rappers rap about their paper package

or watch paper people carriers get stuck in paper traffic on the A4.

There’d be a paper princess Kate but we’d all stare at paper Pippa,

and then we’d all live in fear of killer Jack the paper ripper.

cause the paper propaganda propagates the peoples prejudices,

papers printing pictures of the photogenic terrorists.

There’d be a little paper me, and a little paper you,

but in a pop up population people’s problems pop up too.

there’d be a pompous paper parliament who remained out of touch,

and who ignored the peoples protests about all the paper cuts,

then the peaceful paper protests would get blown to paper pieces,

by the confetti cannons manned by pre-emptive police.

and there’s still be paper money, so there’d still be paper greed,

and the paper piggy bankers pocketing more than they need.

purchasing the potpourri to pepper their paper properties,

while others live in poverty and ain’t acknowledged properly,

a proper poor economy where so many are proper poor,

but while their needs are ignored the money goes to big wars,

funding origami armies building paper planes

while we remain imprisoned by our own paper chains,

and the greater shame, is that we always seem to stay the same,

what changes is who’s in power choosing how to lay the blame,

they’re naming names, forgetting these are names of people,

cause in the end it all comes down to people.

I like people. cause even when the situation’s dire,

it is only ever people who are able to inspire,

and on paper – it’s hard to see how we all cope,

but in the bottom of pandora’s box there’s still hope,

and i still hope cause i believe in people.

People like my Grandparents. who every single day since i was born have taken time out of their morning to pray for me.

that’s 7433 days straight of someone checking i’m okay and that’s amazing.

people like my aunt who puts on plays for prisoners.

people who are capable of genuine forgiveness.

people who go out of their way to make your life better and expect nothing in return.

people have potential to be powerful.

and just because the people in power tend to pretend to be different, we don’t all need to succumb to the system.

a paper population is no different.

there’s be a little paper me and a little paper you,

and we could watch paper TV and it would all be paper view,

and in a pop up population peoples problems pop up too

but even if the whole world fell apart then we’d still make it through

because we’re people.

But I am a broken pen.
Can I really save someone. 

in the lonley hour, original

I spent the last hour thinking and so I wrote this. maybe if anyone ever got to really know me, they would understand me, but they can't. 

Dear sister, 

You walked into my room telling me about people, how you walked down the hallways everyday feeling completely isolated and excluded and lonely, and people just turned away. How there are 7 billion of us on Earth, each of us selfish , each of us choosing to stomp of people, each of us forgetting the human connecting us, each of us lonley. You tell me about how people are born to play the victim, throwing out accusations like words used to fill up the spaces of silence. You told me how people forget how the silence screams volumes and the harsh sounds that entraps and entangles offs our mouths curve their way into swords. I used to do that. Dear sister, but you you craft words into a blanket, promising me love and comfort, I am not lonely, we are not lonely. 

Dear people who talked about me, 

Today I am thankful for you, thankful because you made me realize how people create truths. Truths about someone without knowing anything about them. 2 plus 2 equals 5, or 4, or 6, but today does it really matter? Ultimately the most beautiful aspect of human nature is the myriad of truths existing that we create ourselves. how we all enter life with a blank paper, letting the spectrum of different people and cultures and experiences color their stories on it. 

I do not blame you for ignoring me just because other people colored dusk over my name, I understand how we tend to gravitate towards what is accepted, what allows us to just belong, what makes us a little less lonely. 

Dear everyone I hurt, 

I can count the number of times I apologized on one hand. But today, I am sorry, i am sorry a million times over, I broke your bones and used them as support for my own heavy ego, but today I will not allow our friendship to collapse, I will carry it on my back for however long it takes. 

Dear friend, 

You are my chess board. protecting me from becoming trapped by judgement and hatred, leading me to a way out of sadness. Today I feel like a winner. 

Dear world, 

Are we not all same. Strip away our names, our face, religion, race, gender, love, hate, until we exist only as a looking glass of one another, so naked so similar that all we can do is smile, notice how we share the same laugh, how our hands curve around each other's like lock and key, like we were created to connect them, created to embrace the wrinkles on each of your finger tips. 

Dear life, 

take a glimpse at the person next to you, take a glimpse into their struggles, their aspirations, how each person is a separate story, and a good one, composed of complexities, evil, goodness, but today lets become a part of each other's plot line, choosing to write ourselves into the happy endings. 

write rhymes . com

hey!!

there this cool website here that helps you make some rhymes as you write your poetry
you should totally check it out because it's super helpful

okay that's all

a shame game (we're not wrong, but it's not right either)

it goes like this: you've got baggage and so does everyone else

sometimes people hang theirs up in closets, behind closed doors --  prefer denial

some embellish them in gold dusting and perfume to mask the stench 

some wear theirs under their stares, so far away, these shadows that hallow out each glance  

but you know who comes to mind first 

you know, you know 

the ones whose foot soles smear on the ground they walk on 

heavy, bent souls in their hardened hearts 

demons and monsters and criminals and ghosts tugging them along 

skeletons that hold their hands 

stones in cheese cloth, hung around their necks 

they carry it in their arms, those poor souls 

burden themselves 

wrongdoings masked underneath, just skin deep 

or another quiet desperation in a thin veil of professionalism 

you, starlit flame, older than time and you know you're dead

but they keep wishing on you anyway, keep looking up at you 

like every unspoken plea

like every unanswered prayer 

all of your flaws, all of those imperfections 

penciled in like constellations  

from one to the next to the next 

burning magnifying glass; they won't ever say so