Thursday, May 8, 2014

Not Exactly Sure What I'm Doing...

So remember that post I wrote about Coffeehouse? Back here? So tonight was the last Coffeehouse of the year, my last Coffeehouse ever, and I missed it. I'm halfway fine with it and halfway not. Fine because I was taking senior pics and I got to spend the night with my mom and get Willy's and cinnabons from Taco Bell, and have I mentioned what a wonderful lady my mama is? I'd choose a mother-daughter date over just about anything in the world. I am upset that I missed Coffeehouse though. The sadness didn't sink in until I started seeing all of the tweets about it and all of the wonderful comments on what a great thing it is. I had just about worked up the guts to read an original poem and everything, and then I missed it. And now because I'm regretting the fact that this poem will never be shared in the correct setting, I guess I'm going to go out on a limb here and post it. So here.

i never share my poems.

and i mean never.
things like coffeehouse terrify me.
they mean i have to sit in the center of a crowd
with quick-to-judge faces looking up at me expectantly
ready to tear me apart limb from limb
and eat me from the inside out,
starting with my soul.

performing means my palms get sweaty

and my voice gets shaky
and my heart beats faster than a bullet train.
i fear for weeks
dreading the day that i should adore
and when i dare to speak my fears to my mother,
she is confused.

“you don’t care what they think,” she says.

“you’ve written them off.
what they say shouldn’t matter.”
but what she doesn’t realize is that i don’t share because i’m not ready.
i know how vulnerable my words will make me
and i’m not sure i want to know how others will react.
i dont want to see the shocked faces
the gaping mouths
the stunned stares
as they realize how much passion and emotion
is hidden within that average girl they thought they knew.
i am protecting myself because i am wary of what could sting me.
i don’t want to give anyone the power to hurt me
the way they could if they read my words.
i know i will care
as much as i wish i didn’t
and the only way to keep that hidden
to protect myself
my confidence
my ego
my esteem
is to keep my words hidden
and buried deep
away from what’s dangerous and painful and real.

yet here i am

in the center of that circle
in the middle of that dreaded coffeehouse
baring my soul for all to see.
i still haven’t quite realized it
it's taking everything i've got to sit here,
to push myself back down
and force the words out of my mouth
and into your waiting ears.

i’m ripping my soul out for you,

so tread carefully.

Sincerely, mad

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