Table and wonder if I am still welcomed. Wasn't offered a hello or a microphone, I can speak all I want...
That doesn't mean they're willing to hear me. I can
Take as many dramatic pauses and breaths as I please,
That doesn't mean poetry accepts me. Nor does it
Tell me if it ever did, I probably was like
That annoying friend we've all had but didn't dump because
They were just too good to us. And poetry truthfully was like love. We were in love with it but decided to dump it when it stopped giving us what we needed, or better yet what we expected. I once sat near
The
Thrown of poetry when it probably should have been God I had placed
There because after all, poems are words from men and women who've been jaded. Poetry no longer sparks emotion for me because everyone is just
Too damn deep with
The shit, not every poet is as sad as your, our, I mean my life is. But not once did I stop
To
Think about poetry not accepting me because I refused to soak in
That sadness,
That salt of
The cheek like substance. I was receptive
To
That blocking,
That blowing
That low blow of writers block. Never
Too deep with
The shit I just spoke loud enough
To where I wouldn't need a microphone. I demanded poetry
To look me straight in
The face and make room for me, even if all
The elbows, egos and pencils were
Taking up space.
