BHS Blueprint


  • Blueprint meetings are Wednesdays, in room 148 after school from 2:30 to 3:00.

Blank Canvas

Ranad Ghalban, Blueprint Slam Poet

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They gave you a blank canvas

one you were supposed to paint

but they also gave you a label that we all don’t appreciate

society gave us a sign,

to hold up to our face

A mask that’s trying to dictate our fate.


Living in a reality were simple steps in a direction don’t ever start the journey

where we do stop believing and stop holding on to that feeling,

because it takes too much to actually start

where we’d rather laze around than actually be set free.

And, Is this the world we live in?


The world, Where you and me can never be we

where a different seed, will only ever be a weed

Where I see the Cheshire Cat smile,

because the mad hatter is no longer madder than what we have claimed to be.

We drew that image on a chalkboard with a pen.

Hoping our marks couldn’t be erased.

Because the words engrained were too bold to be ignored.


We wrote down a set of rules

that depicted what we secretly feared.

A society with no faults.

A society that is bonded by something greater then what they are

but is that something to be pleased with?


Knowing that we will never hear the screams of those who matter

The cries of those who have nothing else to live for

While they lay there on the streets.

Waiting for a light to guide them

A hand to hold, and somebody to tell them that everything will be okay.

Because they’ve seen reality!

They have smelt the copper that spread through the air

And watched as the snow fell and kissed their skin

noticing that each flake was darker than the last.

While we sit here and stand idly by.

Drawing our fantasy of that white picket fence under the rainbow.


I could go on and on about the shallows that swallow one so deep

writing my own set of words, that was meant to be read

having them laid down without space for error

but being simply pushed aside because it isn’t what you want to see.

I could stand here and talk,

but what’s the point of talking when what’s heard escapes the other ear

where you hear what I’m saying, yet fail to listen to what I speak.


Statements made true by what you want to believe,

because though I’m the author,

I won’t truly be the one that writes the story.

and as the words roll off my tongue,

I’m stung by what I see staring at me.


I see empty canvases that were left untouched

afraid to set the difference that was always kept in the dark

I see paint and brushes that are left unused

Afraid that a painting would set them apart


Don’t leave your canvas empty for the world to paint for you

lift that arm and finally add color to the canvas that was you.

Grab a canvas and your paint as we add color to what was written.

Written off by society as something that was blank


Our hands are not held behind our backs

Yet, I’m scared of speaking the words that need to be said.

the words that no one will say

because they are the same ones that make sure we’re afraid.

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