Artist- Levi the poet
genre-spoken word poetry
ranking-9
Levi Macallister is a spoken word and performance artist, writer, speaker and storyteller. Levi The Poet began touring in the summer of 2009, Before Levi The Poet's writing was called "art", it was called "Levi's journal". In the winter of 2008, a group of musicians in Albuquerque, NM invited him to read a few poems at Winning Coffee Co. a famous coffee shop in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Levi the poet read his journal as peotry but became bored, so he started screaming the words on the page for emphasis and emotion. When levi was younger his father commited suicide in 2011, Levi writes uses his father as a character in his "stories". Levi recorded his first album titled Werewolves, it was recorded independently friend's bedroom with a handkerchief rubber-banded to the bottom of a blown out styrofoam cup for a pop filter. Since 2008 Levi Macallister Has written 4 albums, his recent album is called Correspondence (a fiction) it is a ficional story of 2 young kids who are in love, The girl is shipped away with her family so the boy builds a tree house for them to live in when she gets back; its like moon rise kingdom mixed with moby dick. Levi the poet writes about god, life, suicide, love so if any of these appeal to you go give him a listen
I drove to California on my own to try to get myself sad enough to write a new album. I prayed and prayed for a salve that would heal the pain in my heart, and once the wound was held together, I pulled the stitching apart.
It’s like the Lord answered all of my prayers, and now I want my questions back, and search for ways to spite his grace, and get my old gods back. Dear, I can’t pretend that I didn’t thrive off of the emptiness I felt inside before the spirit invaded the void, just like I asked him to, and shared with all of you.
I stepped out the front door and tossed up my keys to find myself in a closet stuffed with all of my insecurities, and all of the things that I’m ashamed of, and every broken memory that I keep to cut my wrists – and be it vain or be it pity, well I know that I still bleed, and I keep the shards of mirrored glass to see my expression as I seep out onto the carpet and stain my bare feet in a puddle that I’ll drown in eight quarts deep.