Last night i did a very touchy piece at the writers workshop. I need to mention, this piece was inspired by a post i met on face book, a status rather, reading..”POETS ARE COOL”.I loved the compliment, but one of the comments said, and they are WEIRD and ooh i loved it even. But i was interested in the meaning of weird. You see, i have been at this for years now, but people still ask me at all poetry shows if im there as AUDIENCE or as a POET especially in bigger events just because i dont wear natural print cloth, or rocking a natural hair trait they say.(I dont know if anyone has ever experienced it, especially as a female poet). But i have to say, its not what makes me A POET and im coool like that.
But POETS DO NOT HUG TREES,
WE DO NOT EAT PENCILS, AND YES we dont hate wigs or artificial nails either..I too am human, i am a girl, and i have feelings..I am cool, and WEIRD too and i love it too..
YOU SAY I AM A POET
I have tasted handfuls of salty tears and
Armfuls of smiles, begging me to keep dancing
To the melody of my words
I am many shadows of complexity,
trapped in a nervous soul hanging in there,
between these rib cages and my lungs
some where.. yearning, fighting,
Seeking, learning answers to your
Earthly concerns, etched painfully across my heart
And.. You say
I am a poet,
You think I hug trees,
and whisper to the skies chasing dreams,
and sometimes you ask me
If I save lost butterflies too
Or bite my pencils or play piano
And sleep with books under my pillow
in that printed cloth and natural hair
Because I am a poet?
I evade, avoid and travel in lonesome feelings
Bottled beneath layers of my skin and
Each time I stand tall at the podium,
I feel my lungs compress, gathering like rain clouds
forcing sad truths through corners of my curled lips,
that each time I breath these sighs and cries
They sound like beautiful melody
And you will be smiling,
Telling me I am a poet,
At times I need a hug, I need a hand shake
a kiss on the forehead and a bucket of flowers
because I am a girl,
and I am human too but you
You said I am a poet.
So I escape the music of the soles of your feet coming home,
And I would tune into beats of my pens push,
dancing on flat paper, because here..
it feels safe, it feels real, it feels like home.
So you try to sentence me to the life
Of sentences because I live for paper
And you tell me to write about it because
You said I am a poet.
Don’t push me to write.
It wont speak to me, it wont hold me when I fall,
And i wont either
I would rather let you wipe of my tears,
smell the urgency of my dreams
And share a cup of coffee with me,
So don’t force me to write about stuff
When I tell you im hurting,