slam poetry
slam poetry, like the way i can't get out of bed in the morning,
as in
showering is too difficult a task to accomplish, because
you're too tired after long nights of tossing and turning,
because every time you go to get undressed,
you remember.

slam poetry, like the way the noose went around his neck
wrapping tightly until the silence called his name
while his mother held him and cried

slam poetry, like the way i cried
when they told me the news no child wants to hear
that my daddy's heart stopped, and they couldn't bring him back

slam poetry, like the way i said "i love you"
as in
every part of you reminded me of a beautiful haiku
one i could never write

slam poetry, like the way i slam my head into my pillow
after school every day
screaming to drown out everything they've said to me
like the way i slam my door when i'm angry
because the only thing i know
is noise

slam poetry, like the way your words hurt me

slam poetry like the way i don't know how to write a poem

slam poetry, like the way
i'll never feel whole
again

Just because it's called makeup
doesn't mean it has to make up who you are.
Just because someone is bullying you
doesn't mean they're not being bullied too.
Just because someone tells you you're stupid or ugly
doesn't mean it's true.
Now, it's true that just because you read something
it doesn't make it true.
But it's important to know that just because you're feeling blue,
it doesn't mean it's the end of happiness for you

Ash Haffner,
she was only 16.
Was living it up,
smiling all the way.
Until that day,
bullies were coming from the left & the right.
Knocking her down with their ruthless cutting edge words,
she just wanted to be accepted by all.
Girls were snickering it up,
“Hey look, is that a girl or a guy?!”
At school,
in the gym locker rooms.
Ash Haffner couldn’t even get dressed,
& two the other girls were uncomfortable.
Ash wasn’t just being bullied by the youths,
she was also being bullied by adults as well.
One mother wouldn’t let her daughter anywhere near Ash,
afraid that “she would become gay.”
On December 28th,
she had enough.
Texting her friends up later that night,
“I’m done & I’m ready to die.”
On December 28th,
tragedy struck….
Ash walked into oncoming traffic & was hit by a jeep…
She later died the very next morning.
Ash was being hated and discriminated against,
especially by her parents as well.
This tragic event claimed worldwide attention,
writing a suicide note down from on Tumblr.
Stating that: “She would never be happy with her appearance
or with the way her voice sounds,  
nor will a man wanna ever love her either.”
Ash is & forever always will be a symbol for Transgender Justice,
bringing fourth awareness world nation wide.
When Ash first came out as a transgender girl to her mother,
it went downhill from there.
Her mother was ******,
sending Ash to Christian Conversion Therapy.
Where she will realize & see that God had truly made her a boy,
& that he has made no mistakes.
Ash soon became depressed,
her parents caged her from being around friends,
including all electronics.
Locking her away from the world,
denying her right to be forever happy.
The parents buried Ash as a boy,
their little girl.
Engraving her birth name,
Joshua Jeremy Alcorn.
It was the ultimate disrespect this world has ever seen,
it has a lotta people.
Including the LGBTQ Community in hysterics,
even Kim Kardashian & Lavern ***
have stated their claims upon
the matter at hand as well.

Rosalie Avila,
she was only 13.
Happy as can be,
smiling like the brightest sun.
Loving life,
while spreading the joy around.
Until that day at school,
classmates started teasing her,
while calling Rosalie
such horrific names.
She started cutting,
numbing every emotion
that came her way.
Taunting Rosalie,
always sat alone in the lunchroom.
Their words were tearing her apart,
ripping away her self esteem.
She had enough,
going home,
heading towards her room,
closing the door.
Her mom came walking inside,
gasping in horror,
seeing her baby girl
hanging from the ceiling.
Quickly taken to the emergency room, where she was later put off life support…
Still the bullying keeps coming up,
teens are now trolling,
even bashing the parents.
Mocking,
judging,
discriminating,
hating,
smacking.
Rosalie's parents are still grieving and mourning,
while wishing upon a shooting star
that their daughter was
never put through all that crap.

You can throw me
Right into the wall,
But I’ll still walk
Right down the hall

Your scratching stick,
And that scarring stone
Every day you’ve thrown.
I was always on my own,
Now those scars are my throne.

Swimming through the ocean,
I’m a duck, sleeping in the open.
But the teeth will soon bear,
You’re not the only one to rip and tear.

I’ve also got subtle flair.

It sits at the foot of the leather chair in your living room.
A car, carved from a single piece of wood
when your father was just a boy.
Nothing recognizable, simply a design
in the mind of a child too sensitive for his time and place.

There is a ribbon taped to the bottom with old cellophane tape.
Third place. A national award from General Motors,
a contest created to awaken young designers,
and set them on a path of creativity and industrial design.
It took. You have the drawings your father made,
all swooping fenders and steel lines.

They beat much of his heart out of him in that time and place.
They made him tough and hard, his brokenness disguised
as strength and rough corners. He tended his wounds
with alcohol and anger.

But his desire to create never left him. Sober, he was brilliant,
an innate understanding of things and possibilities
punctuated his life and through him, mine.
He died just a few short years ago.

We have choices of what to remember. What to keep.
I choose things like this car that sits unobtrusively
at the foot of the leather chair. I choose made things
and they surround me like an aura, even
when they go unnoticed by those who merely come and go.

The boy arrives home with irregular eggplant shapes on his cheek,
under his right eye,
near his ribs.
All the places that caused him to quiver
and tremble in shame.
The mother clutches her son’s face into her hands,
worried about what occurred at school.
He turns his face away and closes his eyes shut.
“Leave me alone” he yells,
as the boot crushes him to the pavement.
But it is no use.
No one hears his cries for help
on the playground.
They finally leave
when enough blood has been shed.
Drying on that pavement
and painted on their knuckles.


The boy’s bruised face from last week screams
as it is smashed against his locker.
He feels his teeth rattle
as if in a freezer,
as their knuckles connect
with his jaw.
He no longer shields himself
and instead awaits their next move
like in the boxing matches
his father used to take him to.
With a smile on his face,
he dreams of holding his father’s hand again
as he feels his eyes close shut.
Suddenly, he remembers
his mother
weeping in the kitchen...
holding his sister tightly
with the phone limply in one hand
and him being too young,
in the moment,
to understand their tears
as he let his head slump.

The pain finally
subsided.