It's difficult to say
But you will hear it
Sooner or later
Which ever comes first

It's difficult to hear
But you'll say it
Slimy syllables slipping under and over
Threw your teeth
Past your lips
Falling fast to the ground

constant movement
even still
moving still
this earth is quaking
always

My mother was everything beautiful
                        Raising in the morning
                        Setting in the evening
                      Changing with the seasons
My father was the knowledge of the universe
                       No sugar coating
                         Bitter and unwilling to
                          Compromise
They told me I was given a gift
A gift that made the whole world turn
My mother described it as a wonderful transition
Returning all you are back to the earth to be reborn                
                                    a new
My father described it as a horribly dark thing that needed to happen in order to sustain life
I liked my mothers version better
When I was put upon the earth to share my gift
I was alone
No living thing would give quarter to DEATH
I had trouble seeing my gift as good
I felt cursed
Spit on
Yelled at
Looked upon as ugly
But time has past and I still have my gift
I've come to accept the fact that I am not liked
My parents told me I had a gift when I was born
What they didn't know was that my gift was not one of death but one of everything beautiful in the world and all the knowledge of the universe

Sleeplessness
Grooving
A seemingly
Free drug
Slow mition
Moving slower
Distorted moths
Spew unrecognizabl
Babel
Babel
Spew unrecognizabl
Distorted moths
Moving slower
Slow motion
Free drug
A seemingly
Grooving
Sleeplessness

I like to read ***** poems
In a clean pair of slacks
Dead sober
On my hands and knees

I like to read ***** poems
In brail
Fingers like travelers
Searching for mounds of filth

I like to read ***** poems
In church
Battling old women
In there Sunday war garments

But most of all
I love reading ***** poems naked
With hands  raised high
Screaming loudly
In hopes that some filth rubs off on my life

I can see you
We can see you
Setting suns do distract delinquent dealings
But we see you
I see you
And if your lucky
Someone will remember you
Someone will remember the sins you committed
They will provide color to your story
And if your lucky
Someone will remember your failures
They will ad rigidity to your pages
But I see you
I know you
I know you've cried
I know you will cry
I know you are crying
And if you are lucky
Someone will save these tears
They will make the ink of your story
We see you
And if you are truly lucky
No one will listen to a single cognitive thought you have
And you will never be blamed for something
Asked to explain yourself
Thought of for advise that was followed and regretted
Daydreamed about
I see you

sheep sheep shop shoop
deep in
under
sheep

Slam poetry makes me sick
Literature is the art of the unwashed masses for the simple fact that all you need to have to unlock the magic in a string of words was two eyes and the power to read
Then some selfish ******* decided that he needed more attention
So he created poetry that had to be listened to
And had to be spoken by the author to ensure all attention was pointed his way
Of course once the attention grabbing power of this cookie cutter poetry was revealed to every intellectually overcompensating , coffee drinking, moped riding, fashion statement making *******
Ever coffee shop, book store, street corner and city park was full of pointing fingers and raised voices and whispering
Stomping feet and any other gimmick to keep onlookers from noticing that everything they were hearing was recycled compost
Punctuation was flying everywhere
And the worst part is this brain killing monster ***** good free-thinking poets into its sinister grips
It is time for a revolution
A revolt
A Renaissance
Stop listening to slam poetry
Slap anyone who try's to make it
Tell strangers doing it to shut the **** up
Thank you