poetic activity

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Fight

Justice cannot be served
When we are blinded by the
Bells and whistles attached to our stories and our journals and our tv
The smoke clouds our vision
And we cannot see the truth that is right before us
So we must fight for it.
Fight to get our voices heard,
Our faces seen,
And our stories told.
We must dust off the books of history and learn from our predecessors
Their ghosts are calling us,
Telling us to act up, fight back.
Don’t take any of their shit.
Don’t let them walk all over you,
Let yourself be heard
Make the world a better place for the next generation
Force them to take a look at themselves
And question their actions
Make them feel guilty
Make them think twice about their
So called politics
Make them realize
You matter.
We matter.
Fight hate, make change
Be the one you wanna see
Spitting at “justice” on tv
Spitting justice off the screen
Hate with hate, that don’t work
But love and change go hand in hand
So love yourself enough to get out there
And take a stand.

You carried your soul on your fingertips. And as if they were covered in honey, they picked up a bit of anyone or anything you touched. You would trail your hands over all the books you could find and brush them ever so gently across paintings and drawings and sculptures alike, absorbing bits of the feeling and emotion that was poured into every piece of art. But nothing compared to how you caressed the people you met. You’d slide those gorgeous fingers along their lips, feeling what they said and who they kissed, across their eyes, touching what they saw, over their ears, examining what they heard. Everything stuck to you like insects to fly paper. It was beautiful in a way, how you became so full of the world that you were ready to burst. And when you did, well, you know how glorious that was. All of the art pouring out of you like water from a hose, spraying everywhere and soaking everything. The world needs more people like you.
—  A.O.A.M || Soul Hands
Poetry Theory Class

For me, poetry is a sexual activity.
For me, poetry is a political activity.
For me, poetry is a musical activity.
For me, poetry is an intellectual activity.
For me, poetry is an alcoholic activity.
For me, poetry is a psychological activity.
For me, poetry is a spiritual activity.
For me, poetry is an aesthetic activity.
For me, poetry is a philosophical activity.
For me, poetry is a scientific activity.
For me, poetry is a rational activity.
For me, poetry is an irrational activity.
For me, poetry is a language activity.
For me, poetry is a mind activity.
For me, poetry is a body activity.
For me, poetry is a human activity.
For me, poetry is an inhuman activity.
For me, poetry is an affective activity.
For me, poetry is a sincere activity.
For me, poetry is a deliberate activity.
For me, poetry is a spontaneous activity.
For me, poetry is a non-intentional activity.
For me, poetry is an orderly activity.
For me, poetry is a chaotic activity.
For me, poetry is an objective activity.
For me, poetry is a subjective activity.
For me, poetry is an expressive activity.
For me, poetry is a dispassionate activity.
For me, poetry is an apolitical activity.
For me, poetry is a revolutionary activity.
For me, poetry is everyday activity.
For me, poetry is archetypal activity.
For me, poetry is a quantitative activity.
For me, poetry is a qualitative activity.
For me, poetry is physical activity.
For me, poetry is biological activity.
For me, poetry is chemical activity.
For me, poetry is quantum activity.
For me, poetry is atomic activity.
For me, poetry is a sociological activity.
For me, poetry is an anthropological activity.
For me, poetry is a theoretical activity.
For me, poetry is an educational activity.
For me, poetry is a medical activity.
For me, poetry is a therapeutic activity.
For me, poetry is a criminal activity.
For me, poetry is a computer activity.
For me, poetry is a robotic activity.
For me, poetry is a graphic design activity.
For me, poetry is a media studies activity.
For me, poetry is a gender studies activity.
For me, poetry is a calisthenic activity.
For me, poetry is an athletic activity.
For me, poetry is a literary activity.
For me, poetry is a rhetorical activity.
For me, poetry is an administrative activity.
For me, poetry is a student life activity.
For me, poetry is a civil activity.
For me, poetry is a public activity.
For me, poetry is a private activity.
For me, poetry is a Hellenic activity.
For me, poetry is a Asiatic activity.
For me, poetry is a Germanic activity.
For me, poetry is an Indian activity.
For me, poetry is an African activity.
For me, poetry is a laptop activity.
For me, poetry is an iPhone activity.
For me, poetry is a paper activity.
For me, poetry is an oral activity.
For me, poetry is a sacred activity.
For me, poetry is a mundane activity.
For me, poetry is an urbane activity.
For me, poetry is a provincial activity.
For me, poetry is a British activity.
For me, poetry is an American activity.
For me, poetry is a postcolonial activity.
For me, poetry is a deconstructive activity.
For me, poetry is a feminist activity.
For me, poetry is a queer activity.
For me, poetry is a masculine activity.
For me, poetry is a feminine activity.
For me, poetry is a liturgical activity.
For me, poetry is a productive activity.
For me, poetry is a wasteful activity.
For me, poetry is an existential activity.
For me, poetry is an ongoing activity.
For me, poetry is an intermittent activity.
For me, poetry is an Olympic activity.
For me, poetry is a cultural activity.
For me, poetry is a universal activity.
For me, poetry is an agnostic activity.
For me, poetry is a To An Unknown God activity.
For me, poetry is a carpe diem activity.
For me, poetry is an eternal activity.
For me, poetry is a maximal activity.
For me, poetry is a minimal activity.
For me, poetry is an everything activity.
For me, poetry is a nothing activity.

Humans are supposed to be made of stardust, or is that just another story my grandmother tells the children to make them feel better? But oh wouldn’t that be fitting, all of un once belonging to great big balls of burning rocks before one ridiculous explosion. A boom that spread our dirt all over the univers. That shit’s so poetic it hurts. It’s like candy to a girl like me. So why can’t tonight’s poetry be about stardust souls and fiery beautiful hearts? Instead I’m sitting bitter as an old man on a sagging porch without the whiskey. I’m scribbling about cracked heads instead of broken hearts and claws racing down backs in fury rather than passion. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about falling fire smiles or burning ember love. Just not tonight. Not tonight.
—  A.O.A.M || Bitter