You want to write something that doesn’t just rhyme—it reverberates. A poem that preaches, that prophesies, that pours from your mouth like fire baptized in ink. One that grabs your audience by the collar and lifts their spirit by the soul. That kind of poem doesn’t whisper. It witnesses. It’s the sermon that makes the congregation stand, the lightning bolt that makes the sky speak in echoes.
Start with the truth. The raw kind. The kind that doesn’t wait to be polished before it’s preached. You don’t need perfection—you need conviction. Write like your ancestors are listening. Like your children are watching. Like the stage is a sacred pulpit and every word you drop could resurrect a revolution. Let your metaphors march. Let your similes shout. This isn’t the time for subtlety—this is the time for sound.
A spoken word poem that lands like thunder is built on breath control and belief. You craft your cadence like a composer. You deliver it like a declaration. Every pause is a prayer. Every punchline is a prophecy. Sekou Andrews teaches that performance isn’t just about presence—it’s about purpose. You don’t memorize a poem. You internalize it. It’s not on paper. It’s in your pulse.
And when it finally hits, when that verse drops into the crowd like a meteor, the silence that follows will be louder than applause. Because a sermon doesn’t always end with a “hallelujah”—sometimes it ends with a shift. A shift in perspective. A shift in power. That’s when you know your poem didn’t just speak. It shook.
