Tag: spoken word poetry

  • Day 7 of My 100 Days of Poetry- A  call for: “Creating Curated Change”

    Day 7 of My 100 Days of Poetry- A call for: “Creating Curated Change”


    Day 7 of my 100 Days of Poetry series is about intentional creation, refusing extraction, and building space for voices that are too often talked over, repackaged, or erased. This poem speaks to the act of creating with purpose, not as spectacle, not as trauma currency, but as documentation, resistance, and invitation. It is about community built with care, not permission, and about forward motion that actually follows through.

    Creating Curated Change

    I don’t write of

    trauma

      pain

    life’s unseen stains

    to pass an emotional buck

    Not one to complain

    Unseen pain outside of me

    I do not

    have not

    will not

    seek unsolicited help to

    shoulder a burden that

    no one can claim to own

    outside of me

    I weave words willfully

    immortalized receipts

    capturing points of view

    perpetually prevented from

    participating in literary and artistic

    mind meetings

    Expect me to be

    never

    asking permission

    from a single soul

    and

    stopping for the same

    Current and future people like me

    need opportunity to see

    other people’s perspectives

    that actually relate

    consciously communicate

    No more stolen

    minority

      makers

        manifestations

        through creation

    Curated creative community

    No more requirements of

    status

      education

        plausible politeness past

    wreck the walls that gatekeep creation

    Forward action, curating change,

    no more complaining with zero follow-through

    Creative creatures collect, creating change


    Poet’s note

    This poem was written as a refusal. A refusal to create for consumption alone, to package pain for approval, or to dilute language for comfort. The “curation” here is not exclusion, it is intention. It is about protecting creative spaces from extraction while still opening doors for those who have been historically shut out.

    The idea of “immortalized receipts” speaks to indie publishing minority works both mine and community, to proof of lived experience, and to the power of language as record. This piece centers community that creates with accountability, forward action, and care, rather than performance or proximity to status.

    “Creating Curated Change” is a declaration of practice, not theory. It challenges the idea that creativity must be polite, credentialed, or palatable to matter. Instead, it argues for community built through conscious communication, lived perspective, and actual follow-through.

    This poem invites readers to consider not just what they create, but how, why, and who is allowed to participate. Change does not come from endless critique alone. It comes from collective making, from tearing down the gates, and from building something better in their place.

    Links

    Speaking of community and creations don’t forget you can submit work to our first quarterly by emailing poeaxtry@gmail.com or submitting a form.

    Deadline is 2/12/2926

    Find out more about submitting here

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  • Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot

    Day 5 of 100 Poems in 100 Days, “I Hope It Burns”, F*ck the American Melting Pot


    Day 5 showed up after a meme. It said simply “immigrants belong in Ohio.” This happens to me when the world won’t shut up long enough for the words in my mind to behave. Memes, commercials, fragments of conversations, and other randomness become lines to poetry.

    This series was never meant to be polite, or evenly spaced, or emotionally neat. One poem a day for one hundred days isn’t about discipline alone, it’s about witnessing. Some days whisper. Some days yell. Some days light a match and wait. This for me is mostly about practice, honing my craft, discipline x2 yes, and seeing what my mind will produce for 100 days straight one poem every day.

    “I Hope It Burns” is a refusal poem.

    Not an argument.

    Not a debate.

    A refusal to keep explaining what has already been taught, erased, rewritten, and weaponized.

    It comes from exhaustion, repetition, and the surreal experience of watching history pretend it doesn’t recognize itself.

    This is day five.


    I Hope It Burns

    What’s going on in society today?

    fuck if I know!

    One thing’s for certain though

    immigrants belong in Ohio

    And Utah, and Maine

    Washington, Texas, California

    New York, West Virginia

    Florida, Nevada

    And the rest of the United fucking States

    This is so redundant for me to

    have to explain

    I feel like I’m going fucking insane

    Did we not learn in second grade, if not earlier,

    what the fucking melting pot is?

    I mean, if the only Americans are Natives,

    our ancestors with palm colored skin

    came here on a fucking boat,

    took lives and land

    How the fuck are you saying no one else can come here?

    The whole damn country is built on it

    Melting pot this, melting pot that,

    American dream washed-up bullshit

    doesn’t mean a thing

    when no one’s allowed in

    Would you like some crushed ice for that burn?

    Poet’s Note

    This poem is written from repetition fatigue.

    The kind that comes from answering the same questions, hearing the same slogans, watching the same cycles spin louder instead of smarter. It is not interested in convincing anyone. It is interested in naming the absurdity of selective memory, of nationalism that forgets its own construction, of classrooms that taught one story and adults who pretend they never heard it.

    The geography matters. The language matters. The anger is intentional, not decorative. This poem is not asking permission to exist, it is documenting what happens when the truth keeps getting told and ignored anyway.


    “I Hope It Burns” doesn’t end with a solution because it isn’t offering one.

    It ends with heat.

    With consequence.

    With the reminder that stories don’t disappear just because they’re inconvenient.

    Day five is a pressure point. It holds tension instead of releasing it. That’s allowed. This series isn’t a ladder toward comfort, it’s a record of days lived honestly in a country that keeps pretending it doesn’t know how it got here.

    Tomorrow’s poem might be quieter. Or maybe it won’t be.

    Either way, the fire doesn’t undo itself.

    Ice kofi