The spoken word poem by Truth Is,

(reference: https://youtu.be/1dJCrgfU3pg.

Was spoken word poetry more engaging for you as a learner: why or why not? Do you find that you are more engaged in traditional forms of learning (reading, writing, etc.), OR do you find that you engage with different forms of content that focus on listening and engaging in the moment (spoken word, podcasts, audio books, etc.). Finally, what do you think the value is for the form (the opposite of what you chose in the previous sentence) that you do not engage with as well?

NOTE: Should have a Title, body and conclusion

Nyla Matuk We'll always have flowers, tragedies, timelines, mainstream media, and those large, eavesdropping porch moths. We'll have a heaven for flowers, almost as important as their ever-dying scents. And in what remains, in the dry-down, I will say, what a beautiful falsetto.A Wake Your eyes open the night's slow static at a loss to explain this place you've returned to from above; cedar along a broken shore, twisting in a wake of fog. I've lived in rooms with others, of no place and no mind trying to bind a self inside the contagion of words while your eyes open the night's slow static. At a loss to understand all that I cannot say, as if you came upon the infinite simply by thinking and it was a shore of broken cedar twisting in a wake of fog. If I moan from an animal throat it is in hope you will return to me what I lost learning to speak. Your eyes open the night's slow static at a loss to ever know the true terminus of doubt, the limits of skin. As long as you hold me I am doubled from without and within: a wake of fog unbroken, a shore of twisted cedar. I will press myself into potential, into your breath, and maybe what was lost will return in sleep once I see your eyes open into the night's slow static, at a loss. Broken on a shore of cedar. We twist in a wake of fog.I Declared My Ethnicity About the boxing kangaroo, there can be no doubt. With gloves, on a stage, they made a man of it and outperformed those wondrous catalogues: all the colours, all the birds, all the seashells, all the words in the novel Clarissa. Tense developments during some performances. As characters fly up and down the stairwell, gowns flutter and fall. Add details to set a scene: a filigreed banister, a large potted palm; the thrilling notes coming out of that rare breed of grand piano. My origin story involves merchants plying between ports of call across the Mediterranean, one more arousing than the next. I looked into a mirror and saw the Portuguese girl. I declared my ethnicity on my latest biographical note, only to reap what I so forthrightly did sow. Do I look artificial in this mask, I ask. You'd mention it in the 1970s, and they'd say terrorist. You'd mention it in the 1980s, and they'd say terrorist. You'd mention it any old time and they'd assume a portion of white where there was none. You mentioned it in 2014 and they said, 'but are you Muslim?' Whether by logic or by fantasy. So instead, I decided to watch miniature TV and mind the shop: small Bruno Gerussi, small Aretha Franklin; small Al Waxman, small Flip Wilson. Knowing all this, it was as if orders of world magnitude were getting down to fighting weight, becoming poems of the cult of personality: my kitchen is your kitchen, type of thing; but enough about me, what do you think of me, type of thing. How about giving those gardenias sighing in a nearby vase an opportunity to speak up? Then again, they're so white, they aren't all that troubled. But there is comfort in flowers. 192