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.