Fingers tucked under the hem of my dress,
Heart echoing the clapping enveloping my ears
I want to disappear.
I want to hide myself in the space between
Asleep and awake;
So no one will remember me.
I see the stage before me.
It looks like a broken zoo enclosure.
No glass between
My animalistic instinct to run
A crowd of eager visitors,
Waiting for a show.
I write with a blood filled calligraphy pen,
Etch my stanzas into my bones
Carve my metaphors into my flesh
Because maybe if I hurt as long as my poems are
I will finally be healed.
I breathe through my poetry.
It expands my lungs with each character written.
Shaky hands, like a Parkinson's victim playing suduko,
Knees clacking together like spilled silverware on a tile kitchen floor,
I am in front of the mic.
My lips cautious with their dance,
My tongue fumbling like two teenagers undressing each other of the first time.
The clip of my K’s too hard to unbuckle quickly.
The softness of my S’s caught in my arms above my head.
But a good poet doesn’t stop;
Only begins again.
The words fall out sticky, honey, sweet.
Coating the thick, warm, air with golden words.
The weight on my chest is suddenly feather kisses.
My panicking nerves now pacified.
Turtle shells and
Knocked down bowling pins and
A game of horseshoes.
All falling out of the audience's hands.