My very first completely my own written and performed slam poem.
STRESSED: A TEENAGE SLAM POEM.
I was told I whine too much. That as a teenager I am not allowed to be stressed, why should I be depressed? Perhaps, I guess, it's because I have to dress to impress? But no, because I’m only 18 I don't have a fear of rape. I don't have to grip my phone tightly to my chest in desperation of no hate?
My sexuality is nothing to value, that I love a Sydney and not a Mathew. That my tension over my skin is shallow, but I have rage thrown like daggers if my shorts are too short, or to be battered into wear a shirt that shows my cleavage.
I have no reason to stress because mental disorders don't develop until after graduation. I can't have OCD, I can't scrub away the skin on my hands because as a teenager I have no sins. No, I have no issues.
No reason to hide away under covers, because I'm a teenager and nothing is stressful not even the fight for my lover.
But who am I to be stressed, it's not like I feel pressed. To pay my bills, to pass that test, to digest what it's like to grow up. No no I should feel blessed. Because I only work thirty-one hours instead of an all-day shift. But to me that is pure bullshit.
Because I am not using my free time to stop and smell the flowers, I barely have the moment to sleep and take a shower. Before I'm off running once again. To school, to workout, to my underpaid overworked part-time job,
to attempt to fill out a pile of scholarships that I know I'll never win because there are not enough minutes in an hour, hours in a day not enough days in the school week to make a list impressive enough of the extracurricular activities.
No there are more cuts on my wrist than there are problems for a teenager, because we have no real reason to be stressed.
Our lives are nothing more than daydreams about hair nails and what to wear,
But don't they know that each morning I wake up in terror. Those dreams that turn into nightmares about boxes. Little crates made out of rules society has created. Trapped by the stress of them sewing labels into the too pale skin of my back. Labels I don't understand because I'm just a teenager but other can read and laugh.
Like needles that sting and words that hack away at my mentality.
Labels like dyke queer bi female tomboy prep trans cis fat skinny tan tall short scarred but honestly, I'm just scared and in distress. As I walk down the hall that feels like hell. Because the only difference between these two words is a singular letters ‘A’ and ‘E’ just like the single difference in the amount of stress I have in class.
But I have no one above 20 to talk to because my parents always too busy yelling at each other to listen then tell me I'm being silly cuz I don't even know what stress is.
“This is your fault! You're the reason she's gay!”
“No, mom I'm just born this way!”
“You let her get away with things like not going to church! She doesn't even pray!”
“Mom! I'm pagan!”
“It's not my fault she's a faggot!”
“Yes it is, you go off with that whoring maggot! She gets it from you!”
“Dad? What is talking about? Whats going on? Would you please just cut it out. Listen to me!”
I plead, but they never do.
So instead, I lay here and bleed.
Then there is my teachers take a sickly sweet twist. They think they help but only tell me things that make me pissed.
They form their words carefully to sound like they care but the sentences they speak are like webs, created to catch flies, pretending to sing us lullabies about the world outside but only they speak of lies.
But we know no difference because of our age.
We can't see that life is a iron cage
Not a lit stage.
But it doesn't matter because we are teens. We aren't “crucified” we are “butterflies aiming for the sky”.
We have no real reason to stress.
No real reason to cry.
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