Giving an opportunity to be voiced is one of the main achievements of Louisiana Words. Vincent Pierre Cheramie attended Louisiana Words/The Series:Redemption and asked if he could read some stuff he had written. He blew the audience away. At 18 years old, Vincent's writing style shows maturity and awareness. He tackles the issues of the New Silent Majority Generation (please google this) that has evolved. To show self-expression and fearlessnes at this age is remarkable!

when i was a kid i was scared of myself  so i locked me away in bottle and placed me on a shelf scared of what family would think, opinions of my parent scared of not knowing why i always felt different i learned to act and how to behave i learned to be strong and hidden away i got beat i got bullied ill never forget his name and i remember how 8 years ago i saw him and he lowered his head in shame he apologized for picking on me and offered to by my a drink he said i had changed and grew taller and stronger i laughed and bashed him in the cheek i said pick on me now im not little any more he got up and wiped his face and ran out the door i remember acting like a man pretending to be what i thought others wanted my good looks although i was very shy trying not to flaunt it i remember my first love and great i thought she was when some people picked on her outside a movie theater i put a knife to their throat because i wouldn't let them beat me or beat her i got tired of bein...

“Did you think to switch on the box last night? Did you get a chance to witness what went on? The monkey eating crackers, blessed by that poor nun who right before was sued by her own father. You didn't get to watch, you say? Well boy did you miss out. You couldn't take a minute break?” to me my comrade questions. “I suppose that I couldn't,” I answer a bit perturbed. “Much too much to do within this world.” Both the nun and monkey seem to me somewhat absurd, but I'll not criticize the likes of others. “You really should take note of all the fun that you are missing, neglecting the friendly dial that adorns your TV.” The rage within me grows so much I scarcely can control it. Were I a more violent person One might need to be afraid. “Don't you see its utter nonsense! This great fun of which you speak. It is taking life and shrinking it to a   screen!” My comrade backs off quickly, His hands bo...

when i was here before the world i despised i was never an angel my body made me cry i sink like a feather in the beauticruel world i don't wanna be special so fucking special but im a T a freak some call a weirdo what the hell am i doing here i don't belong here i don't care when it hurts i want to have control i want a perfect body i want a perfect soul i want you to notice when im not around just want to be special just loved and feel special but im a T a freak and a weirdo why the fuck am i born queer just want to be normal yeah some kind of normal but im a T i don't belong here shes running out again shes running out she runs runs runs what makes me happy what do i want i want to be special just not this special but im a T... what the hell am i doing here i don't belong here...

Why is each step such a laden sluggish struggle? Please let the road to destiny be pleasant. Let vibrant thumps sound from the organ that lies within me. Let lights within the trees twinkle at nighttime. Let a moist thick air form film around my skin. Let despair nor obligation ever hold me. Let the king's throne crack in tiny shards and pieces. Let his crown dislodge and roll in a puddle. Let the wolf be vegetarian despite his wolfish culture. Let him partake of carrots with the rabbits. Let my head never grow too crowded and let sanity stay within sight. Let all the highways slowly float away. For I'm tired of all the motors metal contraptions with endless parts axles belts and wires and wheels and pullies, that keep carrying us further apart. They just carry us further apart. Let our journies meet once more. Let me find you at the crossroads, And there we will embrace as when we parted.

Her eyes were dark  Like the petals on a dying rose Cloudy as the smoke that trailed from her lips The day had worn her down She felt like the used eraser at the end of a pencil, nothing left but the harsh metal rim Her body wanted sleep Folding into the chair as if she were sinking into a lover's embrace Her glass tipping, falling from her fingertips And crashing to the floor in spearlike fragments

You Ain’t Seen Nothing Like This I can wipe my ass with a rock, granite preferred, but a nice pumice will be best, any lava rock helps with my hemorrhoid. I can yell at a deaf person on the north shore of forever land with chocolate mountains built with “yes grandmother”s. I can think of seventy-two ways to say “motherfucking” in the February amount of time green becomes aqua mist.             I can whisper, “I love you, Diego.” I can steal a present, some Vaseline. Do you like Vaseline? Hmm, say it with me… Vaseline .             I can whisper again, “I love you, Diego.” Because, I do. INT. SANTA’S BABY MAMA’S HOUSE-DAY Santa’s helpers have the video camera out while Mrs. Claus is gone. There was a sale at Saks and Guns–N-Things. Studio 54 reopened in the back of the house and I’m watching. Oh, and I stole a present from the cookie jar, win...