Untitled Slam Poetry.
I have not once had a gun look me in the eye,
nor a knife’s pointed edge bite me in the side,
no black eyes and fat lips from swings taken twice,
no bruises and burn marks from abusers on high,
no broken glass bottles have shattered over me,
from scourges and razors my life has been free,
gas chambers and laws that seek to kill me...
True, bombings and shootings all around me,
but I have not yet had to hide or to flee
my parents are married, no siblings in jail,
no break-ups, no tickets, no classes I’ve failed,
emotional stresses have come, but have passed,
and even those that linger will not always last.
You mock and deride my so-called suffering
to mask the self-cornering accusation inside
that tells you that your pain is not your identity
and it is only in fear that you hold it so closely
lest you have to recognize that no matter the size
…suffering is suffering...
And so you simply say it cannot compare
to what you and others have had to and still have to bear.
You tell me that my pain is not real,
that my heart has never felt the flesh-tearing steel
of being hated and lied to and misunderstood,
being followed by darkness, mistaking evil for good
taking refuge in empty thoughts and in tears
and comforts which come in the form of despair,
that having been loved I never could know
the feeling of being unloved, always brought low
without hope of change, without choice or chance
my dignity shattered, pierced by a lance,
classmates and acquaintances killed by themselves--
the count keeps on: more than years that I’ve lived,
and all of my losses are counted as few
no matter the time, place, or way they accrue,
the agony of separation, the shadow of oppression,
my life lived in bubbles freed for expression,
questions that rumble around in my head,
not to be answered, to fill me with dread,
and every last day of my life on this earth
lay riddled with fear by a dead and cold hearth,
the weight and the wear of generations before
that haunt me and dead-bolt the lock on the door
of my heart and my soul and all that I know
until only they choose the way that I go,
the gasping and grasping and squeezing pain
of opening my scars to love once again,
even though this time I’m sure how it ends
for death comes to all, be they stranger or friend,
then the chaos, confusion awake in my mind,
drowning myself in senses and noise lest I find
that barren and broken a wasteland inside
I wake without purpose, I walk without stride,
my soul’s calling and wailing and screaming ignored
because who can answer except in accord?
as damaged and hoodwinked and turned around
lost without notion nor hope of one day being found,
and still looked upon without being seen,
by those who encourage without caring for me,
no hint of compassion, only a moment of pity
or, worse yet, indifference marked by praise of uniquity,
theirs passing thoughts that never return
while mine seem forever to wheel and churn,
wonderful teachers, abandoning each child
pushing them through with smiles and guile,
where the humanity, where right from wrong?
No, toss it all out for the tolerance song
which beats to a drum of not once being loved
only looked on a moment than discarded as dust
when existence becomes a burden to the “us”,
lest questions and chaos still swirl in our souls
but psych-this-or-another will deal with it all
explain it away or deny there’s a problem
and then I am back again, still beaten and broken
but pretending that wounds and scars and pain
can only be suffered from external strain
emotional or physical, though the issue extends
not body nor mind, the death-grip transcends
but who can relieve it
when no one believes it?
And so you tell me, again and again
my pain is not real, my heart doesn’t rend
itself over and over and over again...
“Those who have suffered want only one thing before they can take the first step toward healing: for their suffering to be recognized as suffering,
whatever form it may come in. To disregard or devalue what they have endured is to steal from them the hope and chance of salvation by denying that they ever needed it in the first place.”
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(Sorry for the repeat--for some reason "delete" looked like "edit" to me...obviously I wasn't paying attention. This has gone through a lot of changes because it was written as slam poetry and I keep deciding I'm not satisfied with it. Let me know if anyone has title suggestions--all of my ideas have fallen short.)
For those who don't know what slam poetry is, it is a type of spoken-word poem that is meant to be performed/recited. It is often performed rather quickly, is emotionally charged, and follows a heavy topic. Some people say that the monologues of Shakespeare performed onstage are OG slam poetry.