Spoken Ink

At school, I'm part of this club called Spoken Ink. It's a slam poetry club. Have you heard of slam poetry? You may have. Do you actually know what it is? You probably think you do.

But in reality, you don't.

Look it up, people.

Slam poetry is not just poetry. It's a performance art. And it's super-amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I have almost resigned to never performing anything EVER when we meet once a week for open mic.

Everyone in this club is SO FREAKIN' GOOD it's not even funny. I get goosebumps almost every Thursday! But none of my poems are that good. And the ones that might be I have never posted/shown/read to ANYONE EVER. Buuut...

I know I should perform. At least sometime.. 

So I've started working on a poem. It's not finished yet, but it's a start. So here goes:

My soul is a brick wall.

Or, at least, it started out that way.

I was a blank canvas, 

Barely chipped at the edges, 

Wanting to paint my way to interesting.

I begged every passer-by to pen a poem on my surface, 

Scratch their story with permanent ink.

Teach me something, please.

But I'm barely born and already, 

My brick wall is tarnished.

Scribbled on and stamped, 

Spray-painted with thick borders and looping lines,

The signatures of so many, you can barely tell

It's me they're covering.

I'm suffocating in a sea of symbols, 

Drowning in depths of doublespeak.

There are footprints on my permeable palate

So that I can barely taste the sweetness

Of the fruits of my own labor. 

So yeah... yeahhhh....