I went to a poetry slam. As I left, I was overcome by a wave of pseudo-intellectualism, and wrote this.
I push my skirt between my knees
And clamber onto the bench
To listen to poetry.
I hear raw words,
Uneven beats.
Sometimes it rhymes and climbs in intensity
And moves my soul.
Now I am a poet.
I speak fine words,
I leak emotion, express pain, show stoicism.
I talk of merit and hypocrisy,
Knowing full well I am a hypocrite.
I am not one of them.
In those moments I want to be,
But I am too mainstream,
My skirt to clean, my suffering too beige.
I judge myself before others,
Because then they can’t hurt me.
I am not one of them.
I am not a poet, but this is not a pipe.
I laugh at their clicks,
But I love their courage.
I am not a poet,
Though my soul is screaming.
I have so much to give,
And though it bursts out in muddled metre,
I am not a poet.
This is not a pipe.
deaddogdiary 