This is for the girls with
messy hair and thirsty hearts
lips quenched by lustful boys with steady hands and ruthless heartbeats
Intimidated by the space they consume
to the fallacies of perfection
Squandering their beauty with
hiding under rosy painted cheeks
fair skinned artificial colors
to drown out the stains of their sleepless nights and their surrenders to the wilderness of warrior minds and corruptive emotions
Dissect the gray matter
and look deep within
Find the right resolution until you can see clearly that
what truly defines you is not beauty
A.N, “You are a natural masterpiece” (via prettypunkass)
Well kids, 18 years of compulsory education are over.
18 years of being told to sit down and shut up.
18 years of being told to speak when you’re spoken to.
18 years of being intellectually measured and placing your value and self-worth on a series of arbitrary and meaningless tests.
18 years of government ideologies being implemented through textbooks and subliminal curriculum changes; I bet you can tell me how many apples Kumar Rajesh The Third bought, but I bet
you can’t tell me who Mary Seacole was. Without Googling her.
18 years of conformity, take off the suit or the shit school jumper
or the blouse or the knee-length skirt, ain’t no pervy teacher
gonna get all offended; even though it’s their lack of self-control
and inability to control their sexual desires and the bullshit belief
that the victims are the ones responsible for all sex crimes performed on them. (Here’s something they don’t teach you at school: there are no excuses for raping someone. None. Zero. Nada. Don’t fucking do it. No means no means no means no means no.)
18 years of useless bullshit, goodbye Golgi Apparatus, hello money!
Time for loans and jobs and bills and I bet they never taught you
about exchange rates and how to get the most out of changing
your money. At least you can work out a Triangle’s hypotenuse…
18 years, trying to get you to behave, get you in a nice little line
so you’ll be a dutiful employee, a simpleton, normal, the same,
a cardboard cut-out of everyone else, a follower of the status quo.
Well kids, after all of that, all 18 years, I hope you’re still you.
I hope you’ve found joy in your own company and the company of others. I hope you have a dream, a vision, a belief, something to stand for. I hope you’re happy; well, happy enough after being mentally tortured for 18 years by the most flawed institution ever created.
I also hope you know just how goddamn beautiful you are, and I fucking mean it. I hope you realize there’s more to life than fly-by-night popularity and that crushes are little more than dust in the wind and that you are not defined by any of the tests that you take.
18 years now, wipe the slate. Start over. This is not the end, failure is not fatal and success is not final. This is only the beginning. It’s a big beautiful world out there. Trust me, I didn’t believe in it either.
Well kids, that’s the bell; your 18 years of hell are now finally over. Breathe in. Relax. And remember; this is only Chapter 1…
You Are Not Defined By Exam Results (Spoken Word)
By Ryan Havers
(If you want to read this and record it and post it, do. And also please send it to me or direct me to it!)
I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t usually approach strangers, but I noticed you smile like a sea-side sunrise and I wouldn’t mind being on the beach at dawn for the rest of my life. You, looked at me, only moments ago and I felt the flames in my heart, passion has never came on so strong for me, much less this fast. I know you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but I was just wondering what you might be doing for the rest of my life.
I can’t sleep. My mind is wondering around in the meadow of memories. It’s hard to tell where my mind is going, or where it wants to be.
My eyes are open, televising the events that meant almost everything and none to me. It’s always the same routine; Flashbacks after flashbacks with lens so broken, yet it still wants capture.
Tossing and turning like resting on the current of an typhoon that bashes against the shore of your conscious. Take action, STOP. I miss you. STOP. I need you. ST..op. The cold ocean waves washing away your wants and uncovering your needs. You’re bare skin naked with nothing to hide, but everything to reveal.
Your brain is worn from all the chaos it has endured. You crave sleep but you are constantly caffeinated with the warm soothing thoughts of ‘what ifs’ and ‘i wish’. You can’t sleep, and you don’t want to because it’s the high off ‘hope’ and sting of guilt. You thirst answers but dehydrate from truth.
Puzzled by the pieces you tried to put together, you notice love came in round smooth edges, and truth came in rough, ridged spears. You try lying to yourself to sand down the pieces to fit, but it never worked out. You can’t glue them with lies, or mush them with anticipation. You’re stuck with missing pieces.
A tear glides like a rare comet down your cheek. Staring into space, you only crave one thing, and the only thing to get you by; Sleep. the shadow that covers everything you hide behind your glossy eyes and your matte smile. It’s the alcohol that your cerebral presences consumes. Mixing and matching certain points that have no connection, your dreams can circuit different nightmares or sugar coated dreams.
Drowned and unconscious in numbing restful sleep, it’s the most peaceful time, where your mind is free; free to roam in happiness inside the meadow of memories. But just a burden, there will always be clouds out in the distance.
At peace, i love you. I miss you. Please change my route of life and my trail of thoughts by the time i’m woken up.
A guy who has watched the sun set and rise, every single day.
Stay strong. (via tornapartchampion)
I want a platonic love like this!
Samantha Peterson - “Dead Men Can’t Catcall” (CUPSI 2014)
This is one of the best spoken word pieces I’ve come across to date - and I’ve seen some very, very good ones. By the end I was sobbing (and I’m not a crier).
Accents - Denice Frohman
"Her tongue can’t lay itself down flat enough for the English language,
It got too much hip, too much bone,
Too much Conga, too much quatro to two step,
Got too many piano keys in between her teeth.
It got too much clave, too much hand clap,
Got too much salsa to sit still,
It’s being anxious, child, trying to make play-doh outta concrete,
English be too neat for her kinda wonderful.”
I wanna hear a poem where ideas kiss similes so deeply
that metaphors get jealous.
Steve Colman (via themuslimavenger)