This page is dedicated to poems that I've written myself or have received from very talented writers. As great as books are a book of poetry gives you a direct line of how to express yourself. Each poem can be different or focus on the same topic but the emotion behind each expresses the feeling the writer had when writing it and also can reflect your own feelings when you read it. So there will be posting of poems here every week.

We Run <---- NEW POEM
We run into the old
We run into the new
Who would think life would have me run 
into you
We run from the past
To an unknown future
We will keep on running
Until the rat race is over

Untitled <~~~~~~ 3/14/2013
Lift the burden from my back
take the weight off my neck
and left the chains that bind me fall

Give me a place of my own to be free
A space where I can stretch my legs
A place to fling my arms towards the sky
A space where I know peace

Lift the burden from my back
Take the weight off my soul
Give me a place
A space where
I can feel and remain free

My Dear Future Self 

My dear future self

Don’t teach like you live

Locked up, dry, please don’t bet shy

There are things out there

They do not know

With no one to show them the way

Will you stay remote?

Uncaring teaching is about sharing

My dear future self

Play the part of the teacher

Play it will, push them like

Turtles to not stay in their shell.

The world is a big place they need to see

By reading Shakespeare they can go as

Far as me, maybe?

To my dear future self

Don’t sell those kids short

When you teach with all your


A Way Out

When the dawn shows
me the way, I pick up
my hopes and run towards it
hoping it will crash up on me
like a wave.
Hope is all I have left in this
misbegotten world.
A trail of tears lay behind me
and an unknown future a head.

Wasted Time
By: Shamara S. Davis

I sat by a old oak tree it was withered by time
but it looked like it had strong roots, so I sat there
gazing outward towards the world

“Why are you sitting by my root?” the tree whispered as
the wind blows pass my ears
“waiting for mankind to change”, I sarcastically replied
She looked at me with a puzzled gaze and said
“I will keep you company”, I sighed but welcomed
the company.

Falling asleep now and then I awake searching the for that
change that profound step by man, but I still wait.
My friend is now petrified and so I am. my eyes fixed on the world
can’t turn away and the wind that still blows never changing.

By Shamara S. Davis 

Don’t panic  it will all sort it self out
as you race your way to the end to try and forefill those promises
and meet those ugly dead lines.
When you PANIC , you forget what your there for what your
suppose do to. Sweating like crazy staring at the computer
wont help you finish, that paper, that list of demands everyone
has made.
Don’t clutch your chest, because the feat has crept its way
into your mind; don’t fear , fear is the main killer they say.
I’m panicing I have 10mins to finsih this, 10mins. Before
I burn out and give up and watch myself slip deeper into
a hole I cant crawl my way out of. Is this enough?
Eough to get me that A or the A-. I can feel the sweet
running down my face as I pound away at the keys
panicing as I rush my brain to think of something to write
before this portfolio is due.

By Shamara S. Davis                                                                                                           
What’s with the stare? I see the way you look at me,
When I undress, I see the look in your eyes when I take my clothes off.
The excess flesh, the marks that creep their way up my side from my body.
Fighting to keep its current shape, losing and win, gaining and losing they look like crawl marks.
No I’m not her, that mannequin you love, but I am her in a dream.
I see the look that you give me your eyes cutting through me like a surgeon’s blade.
Cutting away what you hate it makes me cringe at the thought.
What you’re trying to see? That mannequin isn’t me.
 I ‘m standing right here bitch! Stop staring at me.
Now isn’t it too bad that reflections don’t answer or turn away.

Here are two of the latest poems that I'm posting to the  Poetry Corner

Dark Days

“Duck”, he yelled as the ice cold night chilled their bones.

Over head bombs exploding, young boys dreaming of home.

Crawling in the dark, sharp rocks cutting through war torn clothes

belly skin being ripped away not just by

the ground, but by the bullets whizzing by.

Duck! They all yell, when the boom crashed in to the ground

some not ducking soon enough, before it touched the ground

pain filled screams, “My eyes, my eyes”. “What little can you see?”

“Your lucky your blind unlike me”.

“Duck!” But he didn’t hear and the bomb touched the floor

it shook and it quivered and his body was no more.

Where he stood now a black hole, stained with entrails.

“I want to go home”, someone dared to yell. He got his wish

after he was filled with seven shells. They cut through him

with little effort and killed with speed.

“Duck! Take cover! Hide somewhere”

The last bomb blacken the air, there was no hope here just dark days.

Brown Skin
My skin is brown not black like coal. So when they ask me if a I am black I say NO, since I’m not. I am like ebony, wood that you find in the Forrest, strong and beautiful like a diamond. My smile is so bright it reflects like glass when caught in the sun’s rays. My breeding is none of your concern since we are out of those dark days, when my beautiful brown brothers and sisters with bright smiles were bought and sold.
You staple this label to me; BLACK, and now I give it back to you. My skin is like ebony not like tar. Each time I hear the word black, I feel a flame, burning and bursting within me. Trying to launch its way out of every single pore; if I erupt now they will say it’s a Black thing. Black what other words will they use next? What other words will they use to try and crash through the wall of dignity that I that I mean that we’ve built?
What adders and fillers they tack on to make it sound better; Black-African American whatever they put on it I know the same label it’s still there that thought that I am like coal to them, something that came out of the dirt. But sometimes I hear “oh you’re not black you’re Jamaican”, as if that makes a difference. But I am not black; you won’t find my skin tone at the other end of the color spectrum. So please don’t label me just find beauty in my brown skin.

Mother’s shoes
When you’re young wearing a pair of high heel shoes
is just practice for you to eventually become a lady.
Your mother’s shoes are what you want to fill.
She raised you alone and she had two other mouths to feed
so you were the entertainment.
Strutting your stuff across the room sat your bones on fire.
When you’re young wearing a pair of high heels show is just practice
it stops being practice when your old and people pay to watch you entertain
just as well it pays the bills to fill mom’s shoes.