Slam Poetry

Slam poetry was made to feel
experiences grounded in reality
to channel emotions
hard to put into prose
and harder to put in just a poem.

Slam goes the door 
when you say "some other time"
Slam goes the door
when you say "Goodbye".
Slam goes the door
when we put bounds to our space.
The door slams,
but there's no other sound made 
than that of my voice.

You didn't slam the door
when you excused yourself in.
You didn't crash as you
stumbled upon my bed.
You didn't fuck me.
You just fucked you.

Slam.
Crash.
Fuck.

You slam the bridge between us.
You crash my will to continue.
You fuck with my instincts,
as that's the only thing you know
how to screw up, properly.

The glass that shatters
as you close the goddamn door
turns into a million gemstones,
smoking quartz and amethyst.

The glass, once stained,
is no longer porous to sunlight.
Desaturated, it becomes impossible
to hold in holy hands.

As I step on shards and pebbles,
letting crimson run its feathers
I wonder:
Is this what you wanted?

What good can come from
inflicting pain in another?
Do we need to do this
to feel alive, to feel power?

My truth is
that we have no control over what others will do
that it's crucial that we show kindness and love
mostly
that we wear our hearts on our sleeves,
a warning,
even if we can get pricked
by the aftermath
of a slam
poem.

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