I brought this poem to a slam. I lost.
I used to burn the midnight oil
with endless tears.
My ink poured, sobbed, ached from my pen every night.
Daytime was no better.
I walked from coffee shop to coffee shop
breaking stitches in stride.
I re-sewed my splitting heart in mother phone calls,
quiet meditation and melodies.
But nighttime always broke it again- the pen bled
with my mutilated skin.
Inside my metaphors, allusions, split skin and split infinitives
accidental alliteration and heartfelt sadness,
THERE WAS BEAUTY THERE.
Beauty in the poetry.
My beauty.
From the pain.
Phoenix beauty.
I was a writer, letting those
strings of tissue dangling from my ribcage
slide across the paper.
There were listeners.
Fellow heartbroken poets, half-eared and clutching pens of their own.
We were all alone in our artsy caves
of blood and pain.
We were stuck.
Inside words.
Then, there was a long winter.
I hibernated inside one epic poem titled "Getting Over Him."
When I woke, in new arms, stronger arms,
A discovery:
When you are in love, glowing from fingertip to fingertip
lip to lip
When you are sewn inside someone else's heart
and the morning light on his face
erases every broken step you took
When you are
mended,
Nobody wants to hear your poetry anymore.
All those available ears are gone.
They feel your ink has dried up,
since it is no longer laced with blood.
My words still flow-
from my mouth to his
my eyes into his
from my hands to his
His dressertop overflows with letters, haikus,
found poetry, overflow, overflow, overflow.
My words are water.
Snippets of my heart are stretched into letters and spaces.
Phrases and words.
He is my new audience.
So why am I even on this stage
as I glow in my personal love haze?
To tell you this:
My hands were born as artist's hands.
The energy has not died, or disappeared.
Only changed form. Changed direction.
My words fall on different ears now.
Nobody likes a happy poet, anyway.
The guy who read a poem about being fat got second place and the winner's best friends were the judges. C'est la Fresno. Nobody does like a happy poet, though. Doesn't matter. I'm happy.
