This is spoken word
(that’s words aloud)
freed from the screen
sent out proud

words finding voice
sounds in word form
finding new ears
words outperformed

When words stay inside
they fester and blister
they poison and kick
sour and bitter

it’s only out loud
that’s words pass the test
it’s when they’re outspoken
they get off my chest

This is spoken word
loud words out-loud
ready to be heard
above the crowd

Some of you,
Some of you are kind
Some of you,
Some of you are mean

Mean
And this word feels insignificant
Feels childish
Feels empty, and hollow, and small, and nothing, and yet
That’s what you are,
Because that is what you have made me
Because, all of you
All of you,
Have tiny pieces of me.

To all the men that have found me,
You have found the part of me you want.
Years I have spent crafting to reflect the version of myself you want to see.
Like wrapping myself up as a present
I tailor the ribbon, the colours all for you
Am I messy?
Are my corners ripped and jagged?
Does my bow come loose?
Is my tape perfectly invisible?
Do I open with ease?
Can you guess what’s inside?
Am I something you asked for?
Do you need the receipt for an easy return?
Am I the on the wish-list?
Am I the forth pair of socks you really didn’t need?
Are you going to use me everyday?
Am I essential?
Am I just a toy?
Will I collect dust amongst the mountains of things you acquire as you gracefully move through life?
Will you remember me, pull me out amongst the stacked piles of your memories, dust me off and smile at the faint recollection of my touch?
Will you assemble me, build me up as something to be proud of, or will you leave me in the box, still scattered in pieces?
Will you recycle me, regift me, give me to charity when you’re done with me, when I don’t quite fit anymore, when I don’t quite work anymore, when I don’t quite match your aesthetic, mirror the version of yourself you want to exist as, act in accordance to your will, moan on time, smile on time, talk on time, preform on time, dance on time, laugh on time, listen on time, love on time.

Please god love me,
Please lord see me,
Please man hear me,
Please boy need me,
Want me,
Want me,
Want me.

I am so tired of being suffocated in the versions of myself I have crafted for you
men
I am so bored of reproducing the same giggle, coy smile and gentle whisper to entice you
Men
I am so fed up with hating myself before you can
Men
I am so sickened by the way I objectify myself to tailor to your high school *******
Men
I am so exhausted of reshaping my mouth to fit perfectly into yours
Men
I am so broken over not being special enough, not loud enough, not quiet enough, not brave enough, not clumsy enough, not **** enough, not coy enough, not funny enough, not stupid enough, not smart enough
Men
I am so done with writing not enough.

Like a broken music box,
My heart seems to skip over the same note on repeat
And you think it’s frustrating to your ears
Oh my god am I enraged at this same song
This same despondent pinging in which every single note seems just off

You slap me amongst your key rings and let dangle centimetres away from the lock that holds the access point to your heart
And I know I am more than just an ornament
More than just a house plant you forget to water
More than just your 2 day old Chinese food that you hope won’t make you sick
More than just that old sweater never wear but that you keep because it smells like home
More than just the at home gym equipment you bought because you said “new year, new me”
More than just your hobby,
More than just your prize,

I have spent years,
Building the small part in myself I hope someone will call home
And here you are treating it as though it is a cage

To all the men I know,
To all the men I’ve known,
I am no longer comfortable bending, reshaping, cracking, adjusting at the will of your glance
I am angry, not because I am malleable
But because your hands made me so.

carried on the dream I tasted in your voice
I was never afraid of heights

when I was falling
                                 falling
                                            falling
all I felt was cool air brushing my hair
as it rushed across my skin

it still tasted like you
or the idea of you
or who I wished you were
or who you pretended to be

it tasted like truth
but the truth is...
I trusted without enough doubt to realize
that touching the sky
meant I couldn't see the ground
that fairytales were meant for those with wings
because flying is a prerequisite
and I was just auditing the experience

soaring through promises I needed to believe
I knew who you were....
                       until you weren't

I believed who I was
but I never believed myself to be stupid
or naive
or...stupid

real is how we perceive it
but any way I slice you up
the pavement still wears my skin

multi-tonal adhesives cannot
heal the trust I broke by believing you

who am I now?
fear of heights and a traumatic aversion
to self-trust

plus a dash self-loathing

when I close my eyes
I still ride dreams that taste like truth
but the truth is...

flying is a prerequisite
and I was just auditing the experience

Who here loves *******?!!!
I mean, dogs
Obviously…
Immature people.

I love ***** shows.

Seeing them all groomed to perfection, not a hair out off place
A shame some cute faces will just go to waste.
While some may whine and some may resist,
If it’s not monetised, well… does it exist?

Lined up in a row
Look at them go
Praying and hoping to win best in show, just for a itty bitty wittle headpat, while the owner gets useful things like money.
Cause a dog can’t use money, that’s just silly

Nails perfectly trimmed
Intelligence dimmed
Watch how they walk with a little trot, so proud of themselves,
its like they forgot they only have the same rights as their owners in 6 countries.
But dogs don’t need equal working rights, that’s just silly

Look its absurd
When they whine all their words
Clogging up space with their frilly likes and their silly ums that totally like inconveniences like everyone because they have to um like listen to a ***** talk for um longer than they like totally like um have to like ***.

But they aren’t so bad, especially when you’ve had
A ***** that wont behave, a ***** that’s gone mad
Howling at the moon with their wandering wombs
It’s like there’s no party, only balloons.
If a ***** wears pants, do they go on all fours
Or do they get sent home for showing more than their paws.

Gasp at how they growl, protecting their hairy bodies, which, silly them, they don’t own.

They must be culled
Anger dulled
Knock in their thick skulls they are nothing but a *****.

We all love ***** shows, we love the ******* even more.
So come on ladies, get down on all fours.

Cold sheets
Restless mind
and a heavy chest
What a painful trio
That sings to a moonless night
What kind of sorrow could be
caught up in a loveless night?

Wet eyes spilling
on pillow billings
Bed swallowing the body whole
What emotion would ever make an adult coo
Like a baby calling from their lonely cot
What glee to make us all fools

All of you are
such amazing poets.
And poetry has a long oral
history.

Why not start your
own youtube channel
and perform your
poetry?
Some say poetry is a
dead art.
I say it isn't.
Let's return to
our roots and scream
our poetry from the
roof tops.

So I challenge all
of you poets,
let's kick some ***
with our voices.