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Modern spoken poetry. Volume up.
Originally I did not intend to read these kind of poems out loud but I was swayed by a few people ( @wordsbymagalyguerrero included lol) to give it life. It’s been up no my IGTV for a while but didn’t have the guts to post it here >__<
It’s not perfect but it’s difficult to get it right in one go (maybe I’ll give it another shot, in future, if you’re interested). As always all feedback is appreciated, and thank you for listening! Check my story if you need to look up a definition for any of the slang words. The written poem has previously posted. *The first 50 people to share any post, as a story, and then comment ‘done’ get a free air guitar*
This is the update of Day 20 since the page’s launch, the first in this day.
This is a report from Stephanie Goldberg.
The time is not like a flowing river. To a certain bystander, all communications from our part have lost for two days straight. But, we live our life as usual. The sun rises silently and without light. The night comes and envelops our city in the color of marigold.
We’re Makaja’s All-seeing Network.
Our beloved cute little mayor, Hera Hayes, is announcing her hatred toward monsters. Today, this afternoon at three, Hera publicized her own hand-drawn posters of the danger of non-human immigrants. She gave her posters to any whom she met in the city streets. The poster was smeared in the colorful blood of the local fairies, mostly in pink and silver.
The poster is very beautiful! And cute! I love the part when she wrote gigantic “DISEMBOWELMENT” in pink when she raised a question of what course of action humans should take to the non-humans. Hera has talents for art and chaos; the latter because her posters had met with furious responses mostly from the “Anti-Human Humane Club.” The Antihu—shorthand for the said niche, not-so-pacific non-human organization—had pressed the mayor to apologize. “Or else…” They paused, with an apparent air of menace swirling around them. Menace as they could not continue what they had said and argued on and on to themselves.
Hera’s ardent supporters, recently calling themselves “Alternative Humans,” guarded her heavily. Alt-Hu—shorthand for the said niche, not-so-peaceful human organization—had said that they would defend what the mayor did.
Hera was also not keen on being pushed like this by the Anti-Hu. “This de… Dethi… Dethithyen! Ith good! Why they can’t thee thith?!” Yes! I see what Hera meant! Cutesy handwriting is good for all! Those Antihu members should appreciate a 9-year-old’s honest attempt at art, and not bully her! She even cried because of you! You guys should grow up for once!
See you next time for more update.
This is the update of Day 19 since the page’s launch, the first in this day.
This is a report from Stephanie Goldberg.
Surprisingly, things that are considered as surprising often form themselves as things that we truly wish. We secretly think of being able to pass a test, for example, even though the odds are all stacked up against us: not learning the day before, sleeping during the test, and even dreaming of a sweet yet a distant dream of yourself being older who reminisces about yourself in her past—of you today. We have the hope, we always have it. We know it may happen, yet we do not know if it will truly happen now.
That is probably what Ms. Springer had in her mind.
She was recently arrested for the possession of two illegal weaponry, hacking into our community television’s Facebook page, and trespassing onto Ms. Motley’s bookstore. She will certainly face a penalty the worse citizen can find herself in: thrown onto the endless pit where the end of the world begins.
However, Ms. Motley, the one who told the police about her trespasser, has withdrawn her allegations. She also testified Ms. Springer’s guns as toys or replicas during her court, despite the test showed a quite opposite result. As the test is not showing an exact opposite result, Ms. Springer is released from custody.
Ms. Motley even enlists Ms. Springer as a rightful citizen of our city. The former has to pay one of her precious lusus codicis—monsters in literature form—as a fee for the citizenship of our city. The book, being the first manuscript of The Book of Eibon, then became a slave to the City Council.
As for her current place of living, Ms. Springer had bought a lot of empty land near Donovan’s Pizza. Despite the danger of making a serious time paradox and the unraveling of the seams of the universe, the City Council—in their gargles and groans—vocalized their approval.
It is nice to see a new face to our community. I truly hope Ms. Springer, being a future human of the science fiction realms, can contribute to the city of Makaja in a good way.
See you next time for more update.
A half to seven, the world begins to cease. Actually, no. The time drags on and on. The words are never spoken in the gap of time that glares. The time unravels. The arms of the clock are steady. Precise to the end. The air slowly becoming colder each stroke of the arms. The sounds that are supposed to exist keep becoming inexistent. They are hating any who opposes them. The time passes, however. My arguments —the incessant talks about them, are like the little wind that dreams of destroying a mountain: futile. I continue to become a prisoner. All eyes are watching, paying attention to the movements of mine no matter how irrelevant they are to others. Yet, those silences are broken off midway to the rupture of my being. I steadily hold to what my magical contraption—that seemingly looks like a box—tells me to do. To be with it. To embrace it. To believe in its word. To type what I feel on its cold and cruel, dark surface. And… It makes my wish a reality. In the midst of that auditory existence that stretches out onto infinity, I know that I am saved now. Even though she was the one to blame for me being imprisoned here, Bell Motley reaches my hand. “Natasha,” said she. A gentle voice that chimes like a church bell on Sunday. I grab the hand. Thoughts of bewildered imagination blurt, yet in my mind only. I can only put a smile. Perhaps, the tale of Natasha Springer will not end so soon. Yes… Indeed, I want it to last until I can reach my goal. Of seeing my brother again. Of knowing why everything I see is filtered by mauve lenses. Of why… I come here.
This is my story.
Beautifully used lines wrote as ugly lies in a letter.
Gorgeous flowers once vivid in color, living amongst each other died in the rain shower of hate and bitterness.
Spoke to release verbal energy to a candle.
Igniting it’s tip and spoke about my past relationships
Sentimental moments in a clouded room filled with broken trust and false promises collecting dust.
I have been a conservative existing being with chains on my neck, wrist and ankles.
My mind isn’t dead yet, but my body is already a prisoner of words. Words like my stomach acid without stomach mucus to protect me from being eaten alive by my own toxic verbal vocabulary.
It’s gets uglier as I write, just like this poem, pure ugliness written in creative ways. With no thought for anyone else to say it in my dismay.
I bring the April showers to may as I bring May day to June as I leave my writings in a field filled with dirty secrets written in a plethora of books.
No, this has nothing to do with how I look, or how I feel, but it’s my reality I have to tell.
Tales of Shakkan and His Best Friend moving in and out of the subconscious mind into the conscious mind as I am aware of my tolerance of what’s running around in my mind.
Jazz music plays in the background as I write this excessive poem to the girl who said she’ll always love me and never leave me to be alone with my own disease, but I screwed her over with my own words that left off my tongue and out from between my teeth.
Know what happens when words come across the table like asking for butter to spread on my breakfast bread? You get the butter, but no knife to make the spread.
That is how it felt to have love for a chick who left you alone in bed… -Shakkan Kan
My only words for her was for another chance/
She rejected my love/
I took as if she sinned/
My chances were reprehended/
Which imprisoned my love/
I spoke words in soft tones/
But to her ears they were not heard the same/
Due to restless nights/
Because those restless nights/
I spent crying/
Crying notes onto sheet music/
Music I would play
When I had nothing else to say/
My worse summer days came from out of my dreams/
I didn't expect to bleed from out my mind and drip all over my reality/
I said I will speak softly/
But pain continued to engulf me/
Mid June I lost my precious Jewel/
To another man’s hand/ -Shakkan Kan