Slammin'

My school is going to have a poetry slam in a couple of weeks.  I'd never tried writing slam before, but I've always liked the form.  Really, Slam is meant to be spoken and heard.  Not read.  If you've never experienced it, you've missed out on something awesome.  Google it.  PBS did a documentary on Slam last year that was really incredible.  It's a form that really appeals to youth.  It's very honest and kind of in your face.

Last week after watching a couple Slams on YouTube, I got inspired and wrote one of my own.  I think it's pretty good, but it's not really appropriate for performing for students.  Well actually, I think students would get it.  But since I'm a school representative, it might not be the best plan.  I figured I'd post it.  My apologies for the language, but I wrote it with the thought of the kids who are the subject matter also being the audience.  Just remember, it wasn't meant to be read.  It was meant to be performed.

Tired

 

I.  Am. Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”

And they stare, eyes wide, as if it’s a joke.
And say, “What?  Why do you ask that Ms.?”
Like I’m the one who’s been smoking some really good shit.

But I haven’t.  And I don’t.  And they don’t understand. 
Why?  How does she know?  And I try to convince them
That all it takes is a good look at a transcript.
And attendance.  And an Academic Plan
To see they’ve been smoking and don’t give a damn.

You see that’s the problem with smokin’
Spend your weekends tokin’
Then pretty soon it’s mornings to just get through the day
And they have all these reasons of why it’s ok

It’s not a problem.  No big deal.  “I got this Ms.”
And maybe for a while that’s true. 
But then.  It’s a lie.
Spend your whole life denyin’, trying’
to justify.  Why?

Truth is.  Smokin’ takes away your “I care."
And I look across my desk into that blood shot stare.
And I want to cry.  As I watch another one of my kids
Flushing his future down the drain.
I wonder why I strain. 

And work so hard.  And talk
And preach, and beg, and plead with them when it sometimes feels
Like I’m the only one fighting.  For their lives.
But there’s always that one.  That one who survives.

Who walks away.  And stops the madness.  And loses friends. 
But finds himself.  His, “I care.”  His, “I give a damn.”
And suddenly, BAM!
His upside down world is magically back.  Right side up.
And there is hope.  And a future.
And it’s all worthwhile.

I.  Am.  Tired.
Of looking across my desk
Into the blood shot eyes of the future
And asking the question, “Do you smoke?”
It's no joke.

And I won’t stop asking. 
Because I DO give a damn.