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Jazzmen Victoria, performing at WoWPS 2020 in Dallas, TX.
Button Poetry is committed to developing a coherent and effective system of production, distribution, promotion and fundraising for spoken word and performance poetry.
We seek to showcase the power and diversity of voices in our community. By encouraging and broadcasting the best and brightest performance poets of today, we hope to broaden poetry’s audience, to expand its reach and develop a greater level of cultural appreciation for the art form.
When i told my mother i wanted to be a Poet Her knees plunged to the ground palms Clutched together looked up at me as if She was praying for forgiveness God for the healing before the hurt so That i wouldn't have to endure the pain While birthing my poetry Like great poems are only born from Tragedy turning nightmares into sweet Lullabies suicide notes into scripture To be a surgeon in reopening wounds just For the world To see the similarities in our hurt our Pain Why is it so easy to love abuse My mom says that i won't just let it go That i'll die a hundred times for the Poem to be written That is a generational curse pass Through bruised hands a constant tug and Pull at life But one of my super powers is Resurrecting in the poem Turn trauma into triumph have poetry be My light my Savior reveal the lesson in the loss That i Am a battle call my enemies thought was Easily silenced My mother has no clue of the hurt i had To endure just to Grow into my calling But mama don't you know
God only calls on the broken For the ones that crawl through the Valley of death and did not know his Name I don't know his name but i can write a Poem Make it scripture place it in the good Book recite it Call it holy the gospel god's work Poets never asked to be job never asked To be broken Prophets never asked for their Profession It is written in the silence of our plea For salvation Psalms 119 130 The unfolding of your words gives light It imparts understanding to the people Turning a poetry slam into a cathedral God Made an ark of my throat my tongue is The flood and i Am the plague that took the firstborn we Poets Never asked to have our bones bent into The cross But it is my calling it is his will And his will be done