Don't we all love this stage? This microphone, this spotlight...
Doing our thing, performing our poems
We may be nervous as hell, but here we all stand with a story to tell
So many ideas in this 13 year old middleschool mind of mine
I wanna write about the intensity we create and the words we have fun with
I wanna write about these metaphors and rhymes we write sometimes, stabbing us slowly in the soul, with a pen full of ink, full of meaning
I wanna write about these similes wrapping me in a warm blanket, handing me a hot cup of coco after i shovel snow
I wanna write about how 30 seconds ago my lungs were heaving, having trouble breathing and how it felt like there was a championship wrestling match going on in my belly, about how i didn't have to open my fists to know my palms were sweaty
You may not see them now, but my kneecaps are shaking up and down like one of them back massagers from the Sharper Image
I wanna write about these other poets writing, reading, reciting, performing masterpieces we place into a masterpuzzle
And my God, to be both impressed and intimidated by these poets
I've heard poems about politics, love, rape, hate, death of their loved ones, and death wished upon those they hated...
Don't we all love this stage? This microphone, this spotlight...
Doing our thing, performing our poems
We may be nervous as hell, but here we all stand with a story to tell

Influence 2/don't you see

No offense to anyone who loves hip-hop and rap


Sometimes I feel the emotion that you don’t understand
The emotion that’s exploding inside my mind every time someone says a rhyme that is influential
Not an encouraging but the shit that that hits me hard in the stomach
“Smoke them trees”, “Popping Cris”, “Getting laid”
They say
No better yet they promote
They support the fact that teens start doing dope and blowing leaves
And get locked up for something they seen on their television screen
I can’t take it!

Teens smoke pot, and get shot, why?
Because they learned
Right in their home their shown the wrongs things and their not alone
Even children are starting to pick up theirs ways and start to smoke haze at an early age
I have nothing against hip hop but when this shit stops and rap start to flip flop to an encouraging mood
Then the world will change for the better

It seems that no one sees what I see
Because we still buying their albums still commit crimes
And still getting locked up 10 at a time
Still smoking, drinking and worshipping their rhymes
But I guess no one sees what I see

I put heart and soul into this poem unlike many rappers today
This poem has a heartfelt meaning and it is seemingly has some curses
But first is the fact that many rappers don’t care about you it is your money
It is funny because we fall into these obvious traps
That is laid out to cause mishaps
And people wonder why they are almost broke
When they got a surround sound stereo to blast their 50 cent CD’s
And I believe it is their fault

I find myself questioning, wondering to myself
Why the hell don’t you see?
Is it just me?
Or you just don’t care; do I have to spell it out for you?
Their many people that get influenced by stupid hip hop songs
That you sing along and you don’t care

This is the emotion that you don’t understand
The emotion that’s exploding inside my mind every time someone says a rhyme that is influential
But now that you seen this, read this, fed this into your mind
Now comprehend it
Look at your influence what can you do about it………
ASOLUTELY NOTHING
Because no one sees what we see

Anybody need a hug?

Are you guys okay? I mean, I'm reading some pretty powerfully sad and confused words recently. Anybody need a hug, an ice cream cone, a puppy? Something to put the smiles back in their rightful places. You guys have never been this down in the doldrums, we need to find that happy place again.

We've all tasted defeat, and it's very salty, we all know - but we just have to spit it out and take a different bite from somewhere else. We get back on that horse, we get back on that bike, we try that lesson again, until we get it. And if we don't, shit, we're satisfied with ourselves for not giving up and trying the best as we knew how.

Now, shake it off, buy a new pen, and write it out.

REFLECTION TIME!

yeah, it's a mirror

I want to see them posted, we all have a stake in this, last one to post his/her reflection is a rotten, foul smelling, infested, infected, half cracked and dripping pigeon egg. Myself included...

Speak on it. Exactly how you feel. What you learned; What you liked, disliked, ways to make it better, other performers, each other, etc...Two decent paragraphs minimum, and think first.

You all know how to reflect, there are no vampires in this group!

I came into this competion thinking i wasn't going to make it this far, but you know what?
Here i stand performing in front of you, nervous as hell, feeling like i'm performing for Madison Square Garden, but fuck Madison Square Garden cuz all i need is an audience
Still nervous as hell, feeling intimidated by these other performers
Feeling like a skinny ass kid ( which i am) being cornered
Maybe it's the fact that i'm barely over the age range for this slam
Maybe i feel like i scored a touchdown by letting the ball touch the field about a foot within the touchdown line, i'm only thirteen
Yet i made it this far, but i'm still freaked out by these other poets spitting their shit making me feel more and more like shit
But yet here i stand still doing my shit
My nervousness is just a sign of my enthusiasm, it's like having a fucking orgasm for poetry
My lord, the inspiration and the written declaration this expressive kind of language sents through me
So now poetry and i are married and um, our honeymoon is today and um, i'm scared of not getting an erection
That's how scared i feel like when i think about these fucking judges making their New York team selection
But you know what?! i got 6 more years to come back here and show ya what i got! i got 6 more years to come back here and show you bitches what i've improved on
I got 6 more years to write, 6 more years to select, 6 more years to recite, 6 more years to perfect
So, everybody come back next year to check if i still got that nervousness, cuz the fact is i will be nervous, but that don't seem to stop me

Poetic Mind Game

My open Worded Wounds, bleed the blood of unspoken lies and unheard cries, while I lie in a sea of confusion, going delusional as unseen faces appear, as brutal events reappear, while I try to decipher, decode my unknown's known,

you see, As I travel through a land of deception, I try to figure out who I am, but this ain't no ressurection, my obssesion for perfection is infecting my mind, my minds lost in the subliminal vortex of time, not lost in the sense of where I am but who I am and where we are, meaning in which point of time we are in I thought I knew sometime before, but this is now not then, you see I feel unable to write a poem anymore,

I remember once upon a time poetry used to give me life, it gave me courage, it encouraged my nonsense lotta sense, straight-forward poems locked up deep down in my dome, it opened my eyes, showed me the lies, the lies right before my eyes

It's crazy how I write myself to sleep, but my mind is still awake trying to articulate, make sense of my words that are debating about which poems they should be in, yo, I'm under so much stress and the only relaxation I have is to cut my wrist, I make my open worded wounds bleed the blood of my unheard cries, I don't know how I f***ing live my life, how I live my life writing for slam poetry type S***, this s*** is ligit, you see it's hard for me to say the stuff that goes on through my mind because my words are stifled, stifled behind the chloroform of life and through out my whole life there were people that told me the pen was mighter than my fist...

That's straight bull-s***, cause it's my fist that guides my pen, and its my wrist that bleeds my life onto my paper, and its my heart that gets hit with the pain a little later, the pain of being denied a spot or slot, how I always feel that I ain't to good, how I always feel there ain't nothing for me, how I always feel like "f*** it I'll never be better than what they say about me,

My heart is about to do a flatliner type s***, a beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep type s***, my death long and painful type s***, I'm lost in my eternal sleep type s***,my eternal sleep caused by an eternal blood leak, my poetry was the one that reaped, grim reaped me dead while my mind still busting out poems that will be unread, thats why I say F*** slam poetry, F***, you, F*** him and her, and most of all F*** me, for trying to be more than what they say about me

(not finished)

Slamfam 4ever

I hate that I have to leave this year but I believe that there is always hope
Now no more will I have to outdo the true poets and no more will I lose
Now I have hope and pride that I can survive without being confined by walls of school
I can believe in my self but I will always be apart of Slamfam
Looking back at Mr. Craig taping with that cam and the trill reciting my poems, no matter how scared I am I’ll remember Slamfam
Looking back at the day I started departed from my old self and finding where my heart is
Looking how I progress no less than you and still trying being at my best trying to surpass but still can’t outlast the performance you put on
I am not Issaka but I didn’t lose all my hope when I lost
I still continue my quest to be the best and progress and exceed my standards of “poetry”
But I will still be apart of Slamfam
But how will I be the best if my emotions are trapped in a 200 sheet notebook
I want to let it out but I doubt that I can
But I still will be apart of Slamfam

Wow I feel that no matter what the problem I’ll solve them before it gets to me
Because that’s what a true poet does
They write, type, tweaking the poetry just right because that’s what a true poets does
And that’s what we are, we are the stars
Still in our prime but still kicking ass and leaving people in awe……
Yeah I’ll miss you guys
From Mr. Craig to my friends that I hope the journey never ends and I can’t pretend that I won’t miss you guys because it’s not true
Just like Mauricio fuck the contest we all already know that we are the best
So why bother?

I remember back in 6th grade writing our first page hoping we have a message to say
But we didn’t
Well look at us now traveling the town and shouting our name aloud
Just so we can get the word out
Guess they did because look at the recognition it seems like our mission to get they word out is making people listen

Next year we will be gone and I hoping this poetry still live on
No matter where you go just remember Through all the hardship and through all endeavors it will be Slamfam 4ever

...On Being That New Teen...

So, I'm only thirteen, and
There's not much I've seen, and
I flip channels for ideas, and
Discuss the world with my peers, and
We think we know some stuff, but
What we know isn't much, but
Since I'm only thirteen not much should be enough, and
My experiences shouldn't be so tough, but

I entered this contest to see what I could do, a few rhymes I'd composed,
Written them and read them, edited, wrote, and re-wrote.
Gotta get the lines just right.
Slammed them for my friends, my enemies, some teachers and mentors, mom and dad;
All of them, co-collaborators in this performance battle of ours, and
I marched alongside my thoughts and feelings right onto the frontlines of this word war.
I entered battle armed only with my notebook and mighty pen tucked deep down in my knapsack.

Almost had to lie about my age just to enlist.

Thirteen, damn...Can almost still count it on one hand...Shit...

Never expected to be respected by the college freshman to my left, the high school seniors to my right.
Left, left, left-right-left, as we march in-step, in unison, in rhythm with each other.
The old guard accepts me, even if I'm not quite as wise.
I can't help but be shocked and amazed by the worldly knowledge possessed by these beings,
These experienced artisans of this craft we call performance.

My eyes glaze over in awe as one soldier charges into battle,
Rat-ta-tat-tatting metaphor after hot metaphor,
The letters and words spit from her larynx penetrate her enemies flesh as a searing knife does through warm butter,
Clutching the microphone shaped grenade in her right hand, pulling the pin as she releases mic from mic stand,
She moves, purposefully, gracefully, behind her prey.
Her beautifully dangerous brown eyes target the hapless victim as my blood coarses furiously through my young veins,
My tongue starts to salivate, my lips tremble with anticipation as I sense this lyrical feud is coming to an end,

She doesn't hesitate,

Her
Kill
Shot
Is
Deadly...

Reaching down deep within her backpack she pulls out in one breath a simile sickle,
Slicing down her enemy in one swift blow
Rendering him speechless,
Leaving me seatless as I rise off my chair in uproarious applause, an appreciative ovation for a battle well calculated.

Damn, I'm thirteen, and
Awed by my competitors, and
Supported by my friends, and
Respected by my enemies, but
My co-writers and co-poets amaze me.

We talk after the war, over pepperoni covered pizza,
About the battle we entered,
How we fought,
What to pack for next time,

Damn, we're thirteen,
Wanting desperately to emulate the seasoned veterans of this craft we call performance,
But marching alongside them none-the-less.

Hard Times (Draft)

This world ain't right!
Sometimes we need to stand up for ourselves,
and that time's tonight.
This is a "free for all" olympics,
the torch we must ignite.
I've said it before,
we can't give up this world without a fight.
Our walls are closin' in,
and it's already gettin' tight.
Gettin' harder to breathe.
Abused wife,
it's gettin' harder to leave.
Harder to hear the wind break off the leaves of the trees.
There used to be a simpler time when we
can be who we want to be,
but all the Army wants,
is for me to "all that we can be."
We need to breakthrough to 'em and then break free.
I can hear the crooked cop yellin' out "freeze!", and even after
the frozen man's life shatters,
'cause the cop continued to sieze,
and now the innocent guy(who wasn't the perp) is deceased.

Teachers need to do what they teach.
Pastors need to practice what they preach.
The president's calm,
but the alarm
reads that the levis have been breached.
If the United States is under bombs,
the president will be gone.
Believe he'll do that, now half the United States is wiped off the map.
Give me a break!
These teachers are havin' sex with their students instead of teachin' 'em math.

T.B.C.........

(P.S: T.B.C means to be continued... ha, ha, ha!)


(He, he, he!)


(Ho, ho, ho!)


Wa, ha, ha, ha!)

Oh, o.k I'll stop now!