School sucks… death to it.

School:

Man I hate school.

It’s like they’re frying

My righteous mind

To learn something that doesn’t matter,

But they want me to think it matters

So I can later take my place in the factory

Where they make little slips of paper.

They put old men’s faces on these papers

And they also color them green.

They say if you stare at them for too long

Your eyes become sick and turn green as well.

They also say that if you lie

“Work hard” enough,

They might one day put your face

On that little green piece of paper.

I don’t want my face on a green bill though

And I also don’t want to make people sick either.

But I know that if I don’t take part in the beast

My home will become the streets

And I will become old and dirty

And people will murmur that I’m the crazy one

And I will be pushed aside and hidden.

They’ll say, “His face does not

Belong on the bill but on the cartoned milk”

I don’t want my face on a bill

Or on the lost and found section of the cartoned milk.

I want you to see my face and to hear my voice

Through my own print.

‘Cause I’d rather push a pencil

And be myself for the rest of my life;

Paint the grandest self-portrait I could ever

Within the words of the best of my abilities.

Than to see a 1”x1” picture of myself

On a green piece of paper

That claims that I trust in God.

Submit today!

unlearn-me:

“8391” by Amelia M. Garcia

At Open Mic Night at Katie’s Cup in Rockford, IL. 3/15/12.

Book: https://www.createspace.com/3662331

Website: http://garciapoetry.wordpress.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/GarciaPoetry

Twitter: http://twitter.com/Garcia_Poetry

By  litmatchstick 

I wish,
for a minute
you’d let me wade
in your brain cells.
I wish,
I could justify
Your needs to drip
and sip and lip and tip
Those dirty syllables
Like tokens of affection.
Little gifts you sprinkle
At hallmarked holidays
‘Neath trees, with old-time friends.
No. It’s just 
“Here, I got something for you
from me
on my way here.”
 
Do you know,
how fucking dangerous those are?
You’re cracked thin lips
Are ticking timebombs
Don’t play little boy.
Don’t play with me. 
 
For people like you
With your manner, your limbs
Your head served fresh on a tray
I don’t promote violence,
I fucking endorse it.
 
I’d chop off every molecule of your bit
And throw them to the choppy green seas
Still they’d be stained a bloody-red
Lady Macbeth would applaud.
 
I’ll put you up on display
every muscle, every fibre of your sinew
blaring out like headlights
 
“Come one, come all
See the liar bite his tongue.
See the liar ignite his fall.”
 
Sulphur dioxide for words
Masked by the dainty presence
of little roses.
I did not ask for it.
 
I am not a customer.
But I will give you a free sample
Of every cause and effect
And downfall and uproar
Your silly little words have caused.

I hope you cho-
choke.
I hope you choke 
under the weight of your colossal head
Because at the end of the day
When the sky-puppeteer’s dozing
And the sun’s an unlit lamp
You’re just a scrawny little boy
With words for a map
sitting on a string on a helium balloon.
And snap, goes that.
Enjoy your view darling.

“8391” by Amelia M. Garcia

I host Open Mic Night at Katie’s Cup in Rockford, IL. I was trying to wake up a sleepy audience so I asked them to judge two poems I performed on 2/23/12.

Actual poem starts at 2:14.

Book: https://www.createspace.com/3662331

Website: http://garciapoetry.wordpress.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/GarciaPoetry

Twitter: http://twitter.com/Garcia_Poetry

“11:11” by Amelia M. Garcia.

Anonymous asked: Poem isn't a verb, it's a noun. But it is not a place or thing, poem is a person :)

You are a poem, Anon. :)

By fuckyeahgaskin

Naked
No more hiding
I open myself to you
Willing for you to take it
Grasp who I am and love me -
Wholly,
entirely. 

I think we could be my favorite poem,
the wrinkles in your forehead
are my favorite lines to recite.
I’ve watched prevention videos
enough times to know how rope burns
soft spots
so I’ve never been one for tying knots-<
but the ones in your back
may be the tightest I’ve ever tied.
The scripture in your shoulders are a hyperbole;
They’re not really where your strength lies.
The only organ that knows of a beating
what lungs know of breathing
is your heart.
Like me, it’s always fighting
to keep things alive.
 
The four-poster bed posted in your parent’s
attic since seventh grade
has been rocked enough to know
there’s a good kind of pain.
When I feel your palm
pressed to the nape of my neck
I can’t help but think,
this is the greatest metaphor I’ll ever write.
(Crush me gently please)
Your thumb kneads my vertebrae,
you’ve really got some
nerve is system(atically) searching your tongue
for the taste bud that somehow finds my sweetness,
such a crazy thing to do?
 
We’re like strawberry rhubarb pie
that’s brung to the picnic.
Sure our structure’s a little wrong
and we’ve got trouble with
conjugating our past,
but we know we’re going somewhere,
I can told you that.
 
I will strum your hair out of your eyes
and inscribe cryptic lullabies
along every earlobe you have got,
I know that’s not a lot
but at least I’ve got consistency.
I’ll drum your ear with the most impressive verse.
You’ll type new vocabulary into my skin
Ecstasy, bliss, I’m scrambling for synonyms
 Because the way your eyelashes
wax crescent moons under your eyes,
I worry, you too are fleeting like the night.
 
I wanna count your acne scars.
 
Like punctuation your imperfections
end my sentences, but
don’t worry cuz I’ve got
enough freckles it looks like I robbed
an entire leprechaun family
of their heritage.
Connect the dots.
We’ll make constellations
Galileo galilee,
I’ll write a poem for every star in our sky.
When that mysterious sunspot on your neck creeps back
it will be nothing but another rhyme.
 
Your fist is my horizon,
every time it is outstretched in my direction
another tomorrow is rising.
So don’t blame me
for mistaking my palms for wrecking balls
I swear I’m not always swinging,
I’m just trying to break down the walls.
 
We’re my favorite warzone,
this thing we’ve got going is destructive.
My words may be missile prone,
but for every shot fired I’ll give you
more than army cots and anesthesia.
You’ve become immune to my pleading,
I’ll stitch your soul up from start to finish,
counting the seventeen percent marks
from creams that weren’t effective.
Once you’ve been mended-
I’ll copy down our poem,
We’ll be nothing but love songs and sonnets,
I’ll write us our way home.