this is a reminder of your right to riot
of your right to assemble and not be quiet
this is a reminder of your right to remain violent
and that the only real enemy is your silence
this
is a reminder.

they say a picture is worth a thousand words
but i think i'd rather have my voice be heard
i'd rather write essays formatted perfectly in MLA
fifteen pages due in two days

i know you'll hear me
might not be listening but when someone's shouting
like this, it's hard to ignore
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
(too short, too tight, baby don't be a *****)

live life loud,
that's why you've got a mouth
if the pen is mightier than the sword
why do actions speak louder than words?
why is it that by faith i have been saved
but faith without good works is dead

according to the voices in my head
everything i want to say has already been said
i'm a mimicker not a poet
i spit back words fed to me on the internet
i spit back facts from media
i spit back spit that hit my face
regurgitation of information is all part of the game

no one can hear you in space
i could press my face to airtight windows
cross my heart and my fingers
spit my screams into dark matter
what really matters

what even matters
evening out the odds of lasting that long
i thought about writing a list of things that make me happy
but then i decided i'd rather write spoken-word poetry
and i think that probably says something about me
spit it back at me, now
spit it back at me
spit it back at me

i know you can hear me
you're probably not listening but now i'm shouting
so loud you can't ignore
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
(too short too tight baby don't be a *****)
upright uptight baby don't be a bore
don't be a bore
don't be a bore
baby baby baby don't let them call you a *****

it's six in the morning,
and the birds aren't singing.
the clouds are rumbling,
and the winds are roaring.
this quite old
and creaky house
somehow manages to muffle
the noises—
with the help
of my cozy, blue blanket,
a warm cup of black coffee,
and you,
Mom.

i'm sick of having to initiate conversations
i'm sick of sending a 'hi' only to get a 'yeah im fine.'
i mean, i don't really mind that you don't care to reply
even a short little "and you?" or "how's your life?"
but, for god's sake, stop killing conversations
i'm the patron saint
of small talk and copper coins
biting lips and stretching for questions
that you won't bother to return the favor for.

i'm sick of initiating conversations,
of second-guessing and wondering
just exactly how annoying i must be,
constantly
sending you updates on what i'm thinking
but when you haven't been replying
it gets me hesitating.
i'm predictable at best
and i'm starting to think that you're discovering
how jaded being with me makes you feel.
i'm the same old story
the same old small talk
the patron saint of lying and faking
it.

i'm sick of losing friends
because my insecurities stop me from speaking
and they have too many other people to be seeing
to even worry about checking in on li'l ol' me.
i'm sick of stuttering my way through
conversations with people who don't give me
anything to say
how am i supposed to answer you
when you refuse to give me more than 3 words about your day?

thanks for the update,
three years late when
i'm finding out all the great things you've been doing
but i'm still the same
the patron saint of small talk again
stuck watching life happening
from behind my screen
maybe that's the real problem i've been having

everyone else is living
and i'm decomposing
i don't have the courage to step outside my home
but god, oh god, i'm sick of being stuck alone

i kind of hate poetry, like,
i'm sick of flowery words to avoid straight-up honesty
i'm sick of the deception and the depression
and the predictable rhyme schemes.
i mean, there's that kind of poetry
and that's the kind that i kind of hate.
a lot.
i'm a poet, okay? i'm a poet who likes
flower words with flowery lines
used only to cover up lies about
how much dinner i ate last night
and sometimes i have to admit
that i do kinda dig talking in rhymes.

but i'm really sick of that kind of poetry.
i kind of hate it.

give me poems that speak past their words,
give me poems that fill the air,
give me poems that breath and decompose.
give me girls with dark marbled skin whose voices break out of the cages they're trapped in.
give me boys in high heels.
give me revolution and remaking.
give me poetry.
give me songs.
i'm sick of the romantic stuff.
give me poems pieced together with discontent,
give me poems picked apart by nervous hands,
give me poems that will shatter all former concepts of reality,
give me poems that declare platonic love to an old best friend.
give me poems that have meaning.
real, tangible meaning.
i'm sick of looking at perfectly-formatted pages
that have to use set-up and textual ranges in order to be considered proper poetry.
i'm sick of verses with well-measured lines,
because those are the ones that i can't whisper to myself at night because
i ramble the poems.
i ramble the words.
give me poems that i can fill a room with.

i kind of forgot my first line, but that's alright
see, i don't know where exactly i'm going with this but
that's just how it is.

so give me poems that aren't pre-conceived,
give me poems that aren't thought out for the sake of their beauty.
give me poems that will hurt me.
give me poems that will hit me.
give me poems that will **** me.

i kind of hate poetry,
but not all kinds of it.
just the kinds of poems
that don't seem to notice
their true ability,
cause i like the kind of poems
that have the power
to change a society

(or at least someone's mind about something).

You used to be my best friend.
You used to be the person I trusted.
Now.
We are back to just how we were.
Strangers.
You told my secrets.
You rip my life apart
You rain destruction on what I protect the most.
Is this what you wanted all these while
I sacrificed so much for you.
Endured all the pain
Stood by your side when everyone deserted you.
I'm shattered.  
I'm giving up.
Because I only exist when you need me.

You leaned in close and said,
"There is no lull before the storm"
You warned me about the wrath of gods like you,
That you were born with lightning inside
And this is why when you cry,
A terrible flood sweeps across the land

I hold you near and the earth is shaking beneath our feet
You said, "You are the lull before the storm,"
And you kiss me like thunder, you kiss me hard
That I am a mountain leveled flat

And this is why your heart is not mine –
That when I leave,
I cannot take it with me
Like Mjolnir in Thor’s hand,
A heart is like a hammer

Feeling blue,
remembering you,
hearing the words that aren't true,
believing the love said by who

The feeling gave me butterflies,
and again remembering those lies,
Is this what I get as a prize?
Wounds will heal as time flies

You are my life's injury,
you were a Beast makes me believe to be beauty,
and now remembering our story,
makes me feel *gloomy