Slam Poetry for the Real World

Bailey Workman By Bailey Workman, 7th Jun 2012 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Poetry

Read my award-winning slam poetry here! This poetry is designed to be spoken, shared, and enjoyed.

In My Church- An Original Work.

As a graduation present, My grandmother sent me one-hundred and nine one dollar bills
And a book about being a Jehovah’s Witness.
Now, I believe in respecting every religion, but, respectfully,
I do find it a little funny that she sent me enough ones to become very popular at a strip club
And then instructions on how to pray for forgiveness.
Although, yes, I do realize this was a coincidence
I guess we all do need a savior in this world of sin.
For some of us it’s God, for my stepfather, it was gin
What I’m saying is we all need something to drown ourselves in
When the air around us is tainted with hatred.
And, at the end of the day, when you’re on your knees praying
I don’t care who’s name you utter at the start of your cry for help.
But someone somewhere half way around the world is crying out the same way as you
We all need someone to see us through.
I want to form a church with giant metaphorical doors that are always wide open
Even at two a.m.
But this church wouldn’t be about religion, it would be about love.
We’d release two dozen doves every hour on the hour to remind us
That peace is better than war
That hands are made for praying, interlocking fingers, holding hearts
And not for making fists in anger.
We’d hold each other for hours to remind ourselves
That whoever we believe in gave us our two arms to hold a friend in need
Our Sunday school would be taught by children
Too young to believe in anything other than fairy dust and starships
And the magic of being alive
We would sit around fires telling stories of how we survived
The times life punched us in the face
Our grace would be a thank-you for making it to our eighteenth birthdays
Because for some of the kids I grew up with
That was a dream that was unattainable
At my church, we would eat until we were full
Because your body is a temple that needs nourishment .
In my church, the laughter of children would heal the cut wrists
Of those whose childhoods were ripped from them by careless parents
Who trapped them in closets.
Because my church does not care from what corner of the world you came
My church concerns itself with dancing in the rain
And making lemonade from the lemons dealt to us
But don’t worry, at my church we are all neighbors
So there is always someone to borrow a cup of sugar from
And the lemonade is never sour.
At my church, we have the power to not only tolerate, but accept
To not merely acknowledge but embrace.
And at the end of the day in my church
Everyone prays to who they believe in
And the atheists just vent to each other.
At my church,
We would believe in one another.
And while my one hundred and nine one dollar bills
Will not fund a congregation
My church will still exist
In the hearts of those heroes who refuse
To take part in discrimination, segregation,
Degradation. It is the church of those who love above all else
In my church,
We believe in ourselves.


Poetry, Poetry With Meaning, Religious Poems, Slam Poetry

Meet the author

author avatar Bailey Workman
I'm a young broke college student, writing about artistic adventures, being thrifty, and searching for culture in the Midwest.

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