a poem: about people who are unworthy of the titles they give themselves

(a brief synopsis of the poem)

so, i have this friend who, was more than just a friend for a while and he was the reason i fell in love with slam poetry. he seemed to have this unfathomably large love for it and that was something i could not hold against him. however, all he would do was recite famous slam poems and he would call himself a slam poet, or a “wordslinger”. And for a while i just thought it was cute, him giving himself titles, but as we drifted apart and my poetry became more of an individual thing i came to the realisation that he really did just recite other peoples poetry. And so i wrote this poem, for anyone who has a friend, a colleague, a boss, a relative, who gives themselves a title that they do not deserve.

 

it goes something like this…

you say you’re a “wordslinger”
and you call yourself a slam poet,
and claim that people should already know it.
but you simply slam
already spoken words
and it’s absurd
that you think by slamming
words you’ve already heard
you can call yourself a wordslinger.
because the only things
you’re slinging
are the words
of someone else slam.
To be a wordslinger
you need to be able to
actually sling sibilant sounding words,
in verse,
like you’ve been cursed
by a poetry slamming spell.
you need to slam original sounds,
and astound
with your own
combinations of verbs and nouns,
rather than
sounding the sounds
that someone else has found.
you’re more like a word-bringer,
you bring-a all the
pre slammed verse
rather than being a sling-a of your own.
so don’t call yourself a wordslinger.
you are not worthy.
no matter if you slam,
the most slam-y sounding poem
known to the society of spoken word,
if it isn’t your own,
you ain’t slinging no words.
at least no worthy words.
you’re ripping out a page
from a book and placing it into your own,
hoping nobody will
notice the different coloured paper,
or the smaller font.
you are slinging someone
else’s slam
and a wordslinger knows better than that.
is better than that.
slings better than that.
and I’m not saying that i,
myself am worthy either,
but i
sip slightly burt coffee,
to stimulate
my syntax,
my syllable ability,
my speedy, staccato-ed,
silver-tongued, slams
of poetry.
learn to
slam your own verse
as a pose to the inverse
take words
and sling them,
don’t just bring them,
word like a wordlsinging wizard
so the whole spoken world
wonders how you
work words so wonderfully,
slam your own way,
blow them away
because god knows
i have run out of things to say.

 

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