It's open mike night, I'm sitting there, behind the chair, my lips moving, my body yearning, to break free,

It pours out of me, like honey from a bee the words the melody ever whispering, wrapping around warm bodies, wrapping around the room like a cozy blanket, I can hear them stirring, every comment bad or good they make I hear, but I pretend I don't, and I keep travelling on.

I'm making music, I pull my instrument close to me and let a rip some light as a feather, the notes they blend together just like the words I make as I drift closer and closer to the rift, to the end, and I finish with that last bravo, and it all comes out of me, until I feel empty deep inside.

I hear the cheers erupt from the crowd, some half hearted, some in an attempt just to make me feel wanted, but I know what i did was enough, as I head down those stairs, my head bowed down, shoulders scrunched as I walk back to the shade of my place, my space, to think over what it was I just done.

Someone yells at me in the distance, "You ***** piece of shit," yellin' out my color as if that is a consequence within itself, then yellin' out my gender as if that matters. It doesn't. I didn't pull no race card up on that stage, the words were clearly spoken they held meaning, reason, a reason no folks want to hear because they can't admit it themselves. So now I'm thrown out with not a care in the world as they yell after me, tell me, if you can't admit it then who are you to blame? Me, who shoved it in the open out for all to see? Or you, who couldn't even be brave enough to show theeself, fearful coward?

Your thoughts slip away, your actions will bind, words can heal or hurt, but ne'er did they say your actions wouldn't do a thing.