Slam poetry
Poetry out loud
Poetry that belongs on walls
But I’m not a very gifted calligraphist
And you’re not a very gifted poet
Poetry from the soul
—from the pockets in your mind—
The places you forgot you had
The place where your lost money and memories went to
And we dig and dig not knowing what we’ve lost
What you’ve lost
We are a they
We are a generation of lost talent, of never hads
We are empty of words
We are filled with sarcasm and hate and inability and
WE are a THEY
When did this happen?
When did we mold
The they took hold and nobody told me
Nobody told
But I remember clearly when we were sold
Generation Y

POETRY
Poetry out loud and in your face
Poetry with a time and place and
MEANING
Not this empty nothing we’ve become
Not this empty talentless race of WhiteBlackYellow ethnic blend
The colors. Oh god the colors of the rainbow exist here
But none of the power
We don’t care anymore
THEY don’t care anymore
Racism. Bigotry. Jokes.

Do you get my meaning?
Can you hear me screaming and slamming
POETRY?
Can you, can you: hear me, feel me, see me
Am I a they, too
Am I a we
Are you?
My pens explode and launch
And you just rock and roll
You just rap and hip to your hop
But my PENS!
The pens of poetry and grace and talent
They are disappearing
I find them less and less everyDayHourMinute
And you threw them away
Into backpacks and oversized pant pockets
You wrote them off
And I have drained them

When did words lose their power?
When did poetry lose its meaning?
I feel the inner children of words
I feel them dying and crying and SLAMMING poetry
Right into my face
And rubbing and scrubbing me
RAW
Until I react
With tact or gaucherie
Dejected and expiring, this is a “timeless” talent
This is poetry at its finest, at its worst
This is slamming, this is spoken word