Perhaps it's because of the Snow

I'd like to think that I normally avoid eating half a gallon of White Christmas Coffee Ice cream, that the snow outside made me do it, but I'd probably be acting in bad faith. Regardless, the cold weather gives us a chance to pause a bit, to think a little deeper, and relax. Hope everyone's finding a bit of relaxation today, whether it be through ice cream or sledding or poetry.

[sugar cubes]

i hope i sleep alone tonight
and i hope it's
cold.
it gives me time to think.
about you,
and the posters you've hung on my
wall.
too many of them,
taking up space like ants on a
sugar cube
and covering the person I want to be
with propaganda
and time management plans.
i'm grabbing at them,
thick skin on the edge of my fingers
too dull  to make any
difference,
so I go back to staring at them.
taunting me,
because they know
I know
how thin they are.
they know
how easily
I could rip them into tiny little pieces,
pale squares on the floor
if I could just
grab hold of the edges.
But my thick fingers can't,
Not tight enough to tear them
down
and i have plenty of papercuts
to show you how hard I've tried,
but they're only paper cuts,
so you don't sound an alarm.
and friends walk into my room at nighttime,
telling me about how pretty
it all is
Covered in posters.
and I smile,
because i know you like when i smile.
there's not much else
to do.


-Maddie-


And as always, send us your stuff. Keeps everyone connected and inspired.

Monday.

Once upon a time, this blog was a vibrant and prosperous place where only the coolest thinkers would hang out. Sadly enough, life has this way of the hindering the creative process and has recently completely paused progress on the blog. This is super ridiculous because creativity should not be something with an on/off switch. But that is simply where we are. Anyways, here's a small bit of inspiration and hopefully the first of many posts to follow soon. Keep it real out there, folks!

[untitled]
sometimes I feel it burning burning burning inside of me
threatening to spill over and out and 
boiling boiling boiling
I choke

the rocket's full of fuel and
well oiled and
the peices function like
clockwork
and I know.
I've checked ten thousand times
because it's the only thing i care about
the sole piece of light crawling through the cloak
of apathy that consumes me
in the dark galaxy of emotions i cant escape

and daily i feel the explosions inside of me
more than neurons firing on a tuesday
and im shaking with the strength of a stampede
dark stallions lost in the night,
choosing to tear me apart

i just want to write to you
and explain how much it hurts
and medicate the botomless void that's grown deeper
since that wednesday

and ever still im burning burning burning white hot inside
simply waiting for ignition to provide release
what an elementary job, maybe one for
a cigarette butt or candle's glint
but a task so large for my trembling hands

so i'm waiting wating waiting
refusing to believe it's all i'll ever do

-Isi

remember when we posted things?

We do too! It's been around a week since Maddie or Isi or I have been together, so this post is in honor of them. Just kidding, they're part of the blog so that'd be weird. Here's a piece I wrote a while ago. As always, keep things groovy! (And send us your stuff)

a cathedral shoots sky high
and cranium wide
reverberations of hydraulic proportions
echo
thumping
thumping
thumping
an afrolatinamerican beat
drums
idea feet stamping
protesting
as they are folded into new information
creviced carefully and haphazardly
into the chaise lounge of my grin
i see the whip of a jacket around a corner
and chase hopelessly after
what could have been such an excellent work of art
maybe it was a masterpiece
maybe it was a misunderstanding
maybe it was nothing at all
there is a desert of blank things stretched out in front of my eyes
yawning
red curtain
sand from the bottom of my bikini
halfwritten poems
a few splotches of poorlyplacedpaint
lipstick stains for miles and miles and miles
i try to ignore all the words
but they flash lightningfast
across the garden of irises as i’m sleeping
reminding a drowsy dreamer that

Xmarksthespotafterall

Bum Blues in A Minor

Here's just a little something cheerful on this rainy almost-summer afternoon. Written by our talented friend Brian, thanks dude.



Bum Blues in A Minor

Theres a bum pantin down the street,
Bouncin along hittin concrete
The people a'starin
The bum not carin
Whos this man with the goodwill wearin
So he takes a rest
just to listen
Pops off his hat, face a'grinnin
"she did what?"
"that fools lost her mind!"
Bums just gaze, their the listnen kind
So he gets up
and keeps on walkin
turns to the sky while the people talkin
He's hopeful and he's happy
Everything's ok
He just stares at life In his bum kinda way

-Brian Ker

Happy summer! Enjoy yourselves. And as always, keep exploring. (send your stuff in too)

the back of the bus

In case you didn't know, Friday, May 3, was the anniversary of the day that Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus in Birmingham, Alabama. It was a revolutionary refusal and one that sparked the fire of peaceful protest within the oppressed throughout the nation. The fight against racism has been one of my passions for as long as I can remember, and I wouldn't even exist as a person if the Civil Rights movement hadn't happened. On Friday our English class (finally) did a poetry writing assignment in which we received a list of all of the major words in Sylvia Plath's "The Applicant". Of course, my poem turned into a poem about racism and injustice. Here it is.

Bad black boy.

Brace yourself, black boy.

Bury yourself in bombs, black boy.

They don't care if you're crying, black boy.

They want you to dissolve, black boy.

Your emptiness is everywhere, black boy.

You are neither silver nor gold, black boy.

You are a headache, black boy.

You are a shatterproof, waterproof bunch of holes, black boy.

They do not notice if you are missing, black boy.

They fill your space with rubber soles, black boy.

They will collect your teeth and feed them to the dogs, black boy.

There are fifty of you, black boy.

You are nothing at all, black boy.

You were created wrong, black boy.

They want you to be right, black boy.

They want you to be gone, black boy.

They want you to give up the fight, black boy.

They want you to be white, black boy.

There is nothing you can do, black boy.


What are you passionate about? We'd like to know. Send us an email at
{wrotewritewrit@gmail.com}

great expectations

These days, fine art is widely inaccessible. We have to pay money to go see a concert, watch a movie, visit a museum. Free galleries and venues are rare, and we have to work hard to find a writer who wants to make his or her e-book free. We're so tired of this, and have been for a while. That's why we love street art and spoken word so much. They bring the message to the street, broadcast beauty to the populace. All over the country and the world, artists are striving to give beautiful things back to those who need them. One of these projects is known as Poets in Unexpected Places. Check this out.

We want your voice to be added to the disruptive pandemonium. Send us an e-mail, please. We're begging you.

{wrotewritewrit@blogspot.com}

the electric city

As you may have gathered, the three of us bloggers come from the small town of Franklin, Tennessee. While the people are wonderful and the place has so much to offer, life can seem a little slow sometimes! For this reason, 1/3 of this blog has taken to the streets. That's right, Isi Beach has gone to Chicago and she's never coming back (actually she is, but let her think that for now). The hustle and bustle of the big city is thrilling and Isi feels that she has come alive. So, while the city never sleeps, Isi stays up all night and writes about it. She can feel the electricity of the windy city coursing through her- and she hopes that with this poem, you can too.


City Mouth

My mouth, the revolver
Runnin round the city like it knows somebody
Or is somebody
Spitting rhymes like bullets
Speed of light can't keep up
Flying high on crack, speed, with ecstasy
With power
Shooting down anything like "move bitch, you're in the way"
Fits in, in this city
Pizza mouth lipstick mouth power mouth M79
My mouth,
The revolver.


by Isi Beach


There you have it. On another note, we welcome blog submissions of all shapes and sizes and we strongly encourage/dearly beg all of you lovely readers to show us what you've got! Submit your stuff to wrotewritewrit@gmail.com. Please. Thank you!
Peace.

anis mojgani

{cultured.creative.melodic.spokenwordpoet}

For Those Who Can Still Ride In Airplanes

those of you who know us well enough have probably noticed our latest obsession with slam poetry. because of this not-so-unhealthy fixation, here is a post about a fantastic writer/speaker who is a two-time National Poetry Slam Champion and winner of the International World Cup Poetry Slam. he has published three collections: Over the Anvil We Stretch, The Feather Room, and Songs from Under the River.

If you like what you heard here, check out his blog.

Also, we've had a serious lack of posts from you guys lately. Not to be rude, but that sucks. Please, please, please tell us what you think! Questions, comments, concerns, jokes, etc. We love it all.

{wrotewritewrit.blogspot.com}

procrastination at its finest

Maybe we're being self-centered, but let's admit it, you've been dying for a new post. Well, sorry guys, we just haven't had time lately (you can blame certain teachers; we won't tell you their names). However, here's what you should be looking forward to in the near future: 1. a post about the Williamson County Slam (shout out to Jordan Webb for representing FHS and taking home first place!) 2. a post about the open mics that have been happening at The Coffee House on 2nd and Bridge in Downtown Franklin 3. some original pieces 4. more featured artists.

Again, we apologize for not keeping up with regular posts. Unfortunately we're busy trying to figure out how to be independent almost-adults, and apparently doing things you enjoy doesn't play a huge role in "grown up" life. Here's a poem I wrote a few days ago to (hopefully) curb your annoyance at us.

will you be my color wheel?

will you let me feel

the monochromatic certainty

in your fingernails?

let me sing to you

in paint and silence

my skin screams for

your gamma rays

shut the silver into my soul

let me be black and blue

for you

those eyelashes rip

me in two

I'm shredded

by the orange hues

Emitted by my love for you

Forever is a minute too

Short for me to prove

How long this eon is

I'd throw a mountain top

Or climb into the valleys of your eyes

Gratefully, thankfully

Anoint me in the oil paint of our harmony

Quit harming me with your denial

Stop charming me with the revival

Of my senses every time

I lay an eye on you

I cry

My tears are wetter than the dead sea

Because I'm alive

Every time you vilify me

My soul becomes  a valley filled with charcoal pencils

I can't resist you

The watercolor of your adoration stains

The paper of my skin

A mark of our pigmented sin

Freedom screaming from within

Perpetual

a ritual

Of dismissal

You're a missile

Destroying the isle

Of my isolation

An atomic explosion

An artistic implosion

You are my constant convulsion.

freedom of expression

One of the greatest things about street art is that it forces people to pay attention. In this modern day and age, getting people to appreciate the arts is very difficult. Street artists have realized this, and have decided that instead of getting people to go to art museums, they'd bring the museums to the people. On top of making art more accessible to the public eye, street art also allows socioeconomic groups that would not normally be able to afford formal artistic training to express themselves in a positive manner.

Anyone can be an artist. All you need is a can of spray paint, a wall, and an idea. The following video is an example of how young people have recently defied the odds in order to express themselves through art. Enjoy.

williamson county slam

What are you doing tomorrow at 4:00 pm? That's right! You'll be at Independence High School for the Williamson County Semifinal Slam.

cory basil

{author.illustrator.dreamer.lover}

mr. cory basil is the perfect combination of illustrator and poet. his watercolor and ink pieces are both dark and endearing, and his poetry speaks straight to one's soul. he recently published a collection which he both authored and illustrated, by the name of Skinny Dipping in Daylight.
here is a poem from the collection, "blind":

i'm thumbing through the memories 
searching for the words
dreaming in black and white
but living shades of grey 
i'm picking up the pieces
from the corners of the earth
ones laced with intentions
of leaving you behind. 

simple, endearing, and concise: our favorite kind of poetry.


below are some of mr. basil's illustrations.

we hope you enjoy cory basil's art as much as we do. fun fact: he lives here in Nashville and currently has an exhibit up in Frothy Monkey (downtown Franklin). if you're interested in mr. basil and would like to know more, you can find his information on his facebook page. check it out!


interested in seeing your favorite artist on our blog? you know what to do.

{wrotewritewrit@gmail.com}

A Chair's Tale

Here's the saga of a chair that sits there, as told by our good friend Levi Conrad. We hope it brings a smile to your face like it did to ours!
~

There is a chair. It sits in front of the

room. It stands silently

Unhappily

Not Wavering from its place.

I want to sit in it

I want to sit

In that chair

It calls my name, as it is the only one

who knows me.

I want the chair.

I want it near me.

I want to love that chair .

I want it to love me.

To support me.

To hold me over the troubles I face.

I want it

because

It is unobtainable

Because it is

Forbidden

I wonder

What is it like?

What is the

Feeling

Sitting high up

Above any who would call me

Peer

Is it the source of power

Of his power

I will

Never know.

I will

Never know

The truth

Regarding

The chair.


~
Inspirational. Do you have the inside scoop on any inanimate objects? Or animate ones? We're all ears. Submit your ramblings to wrotewritewrit@gmail.com and as always, keep creating.

perception

I used to write poetry.

that was before God cracked open my bones

and poured marrow onto paper.

Instead of smooth muscle tissue I

Found a perfect map of the milky way

within my endoskeleton.

He told me to remember him by partaking in his flesh

So I ate the wafer and drank the wine

But my mouth filled with sand

And

The blood of child soldiers.

My teeth,

tombstones tarnished by mothers tears

my tongue,

A freedom flag flapping in the wind

as tired feet are forced to

tread

To protect a "loving" god.

What kind of father gives

An obesity epidemic to the rich and

AIDS

To the emaciated

Not my god, no my god

Does not tell me he loves me

And then kill the innocent like

"Fuck you, here's downs syndrome instead of divinity"

That

Is

Not

my

god.

no, my god is

eons of dirt pulsing through my bloody bloodstream

a mourning dove cooing on a midsummer morning

the scratch of a pencil on a clean sheet of paper

the charred cups of coffee that hold me together.

he is the dual nature of poetry and prose

running together in the throes

of the nights spent

deep inside an artist’s mind

don’t underestimate

the power of god inside

of your tendons

don’t underestimate

your ability to feel millions

and billions

of brilliance pulsing

and pulling

don’t let the anxiety of alienation

drool on your purity

don’t let human history

steal your autonomy

i am part of you

and you’re part of me

so come with me

don’t try to flee

from morality

spontaneity

the gravity

of indecency is necessary to

let the stream

of stability strutting through

your daily dreams

indulge in sweet

sustenance of permanence

and accomplishments

you’re part of this

a fixture

in the mixture,

a tincture

of revolutionary scripture

the perfect picture

of misheard

geniuses

We’re done with this

it’s time for

collective consciousness

peaceful protest

civil unrest

uninhibited conquest

let’s do our best

at your behest

to take this quest

to intelligence

and permanence

of self defense

we are IMMENSE

and the consequence

from whence this commences

is immersion in the present tense

the time is now,

for in your mind

you are divine

yet unrefined

BE disinclined

to let mankind

restrain our kind

we are the future

the truth producers

the art inducers

beauty pursuers

i want to see

the you and me

i want to see

the we

in unity

for me, that’s who god appears to be.

-sofi goodwin

What's your perception?

Submit your stuff, we want to hear it.

{wrotewritewrit@gmail.com}

mid south grand slam semis

We think it's safe to say that last night's slam was incredible. Here are a few videos of the winners and those who are advancing to the wild card semi-final. 

Eric Lentz

Sean Smith

Caleb West 

Brandon Lenox

 If you don't know much about spoken word, you should at least know that each of these pieces is an original. 

Yeah, you read that right. 

Some of the performers have been participating in slams for years. Other poets (like david, sofi, and eric) had never experienced the magic of a live slam before. Regardless of age, gender, and nationality, everyone who spoke had a story to tell. The styles and genres of the pieces varied widely from poems about stilettos  to poems about gang violence, yet each one had a completely unique story to tell. And don't think that participation in the slam stopped at those who were in front of the mic. No, the best thing about last night aside from the poets themselves was the audience. In this day and age it is extremely difficult to find such a large group of people who will willingly sacrifice a Friday night to go to any sort of artistic event. But if you were at the slam last night you know that the crowd was half of the fun. 

A special thanks to the lovely people who showed up to support us last night, everyone who performed, the Frist Center for the Visual Arts for hosting the event, and Southern Word for organizing everything. We couldn't have asked for a better experience. 

If you aren't blind and can therefore recognize the immense amount of talent in these videos (sorry for the terrible quality, we obviously aren't videographers), come out to the next slam! Registration is still open to compete, so sign up here. 

Have you ever performed or written anything? We want your submissions! Comment below or send us an e-mail at wrotewritewrit@gmail.com. 

midnight snack

here's a little bit of inspiration for you on this fine wednesday night (or thursday morning).

It comes from within

An ember at birth, hope saw the spark and fanned it

Hope's heart saw the light and skipped a beat

Hands torn claw, 

but the burning ever saw

the truth apparent.

A quiet life, polite friends, 

a peaceful transparent mask.

November saw the spark grow.

7 days it worked, uneasy,

Sensing the worst.

On that seventh day,

BOOM

All hope lost, 

the light burnt out.

.

..

...

..

.

Only to EXPLODE in FIREWORKS

tomorrow.

-isi beach

has your brain exploded recently? 

whether literally or figuratively, we want to know about it.

 you know what to do. 

{wrotewritewrit@gmail.com}

andrea gibson

{beautiful.brilliant.inspiring.spokenwordpoet}

This piece, titled Birthday, is one of our favorites.

Did this poem intrigue you? Check out Andrea's blog.

Did this poem inspire you? Send us your work at wrotewritewrit@gmail.com or comment below!

slammin'

This Friday, there's a poetry slam at the Frist Center Cafe at 6 p.m.

 people you know and love will be competing: 

sofi goodwin, eric lentz, david smith, and many more. 

This week, in honor of spoken word poetry, 

we're going to be posting some of our favorites,
plus some original work people have submitted.

Hope to see you guys there this Friday. 

Interested in participating in this Friday's slam?
Register here.

Want to be a featured poet this week
in honor of spoken word poetry?
Comment below or send us an e-mail at
wrotewritewrit@gmail.com

and to start this week's theme off, here are
two of our favorite spoken word poets
performing a love poem (of sorts) together.
bon appetit.

joseph ozment

{witty. welsh. well-written. musician.}


As the warm weather (we hope) is starting to frequent our little town of Franklin, we've been looking for the perfect music to bridge the gap between winter and spring. Luckily enough, we know Joseph Ozment. Otherwise known as "Pleased to Michu", Joseph's music is both comforting and uplifting; perfect for the first days of spring that are just warm enough to drive with your windows down. Joseph also writes poetry and has told us that if we are nice to him, he'll submit his other work later. For now, let's just enjoy his music, because it's certainly good enough. Once you hear his enchanting Welsh accent and acoustic rock vibes, we know you'll want to fan-girl over him as much as we do.

Here are some of our favorites:
All My Lovin'
Whistle for the Choir
Jana

Do you like Joseph as much as we do? Help him out by listening to and downloading the rest of his music on soundcloud and liking his page on facebook.




Questions, comments, concerns? Want to be featured on the blog? If so, comment below or send us an e-mail at wrotewritewrit@gmail.com. Your feedback is always welcome!

hello

Let us first start with the Merriam Webster's Dictionary definition of "blog":

 a Web site that contains an online personal journal with reflections, comments, and often hyperlinks provided by the writer; also : the contents of such a site— blog verb— blog·ger noun— blog·ging noun

As humans, we often consider our individual experiences and emotions to be much more important than they actually are. That is the main reason that our culture is obsessed with social networking sites. Of course people want to read about what I'm doing every second! "I just made myself a sandwich #futurechef" Gasp, The intrigue! Unfortunately, though the modern person spends hundreds of hours a year on the internet, an extremely small percentage of this time is used focusing on things that actually matter. Hate to break it to you, but as cute as your new cheetah print shoes are, they are not going to change the world. The internet is a medium that allows a single post to be seen by millions of people in a matter of seconds, yet we use it to post things of little to no importance.

And here, my friends, is where this specific blog comes in.

My friends and I (we'll make a post introducing ourselves at a later date) have noticed that young adults are not being given the attention they need when it comes to the arts. So many musicians, poets, and artists exist out there in this big, beautiful world, and we want to showcase their talents. Once or twice or maybe even three times a week (we haven't decided yet, this project is pretty unorganized), this blog will feature those who are devoted to making the world beautiful. Don't get us wrong; we are no exception to the social networking trend. I talked about eating pita chips the other day on my twitter. Our goal isn't to look down on someone's choice of internet use, but rather to try and create a place where artists from all planes can submit their work. We'll post our own work; the work of artists, writers, musicians, actors, etc.; and anything that YOU send to us. The goal is to use the power of the internet to catalyze creativity.

If you think we're insane, good. We think we're insane, too. Let's be insane together.

Interested in being on our blog? Send us an e-mail at wrotewritewrit@gmail.com or comment below! We want your work!