Slam

Hello to all and before I start I feel I should impart the fact that this poem is not my own. In fact none of the poems that bear my name can I truthfully claim as mine. And neither claim can you. “ What’s that you say? How dare you?” And trust me I know the work and all the eons of time you've put in. And so have I, so much time... though... Some of it, I must admit, Restless I sit, Waiting to be hit, On by inspiration Whose terrible communication I can but guess where and when our next date might be I know too of times where I feel I am drowning in a sea of blood, sweat and tears Safety of the shore lying beyond the screen before me Face frozen lit by it’s screen’s cold glare That reflects back stare that is as blank as my mind. Then there are the times when all the words I need just seem to slip out my head and hang in the air, and I try to grab hold, but it’s utterly in vain, I can’t even see them , yet feel the I can, weighing me down with their reproachful stare judging my inadequacies After times I can hold on to a though no more than i can a handful of sand, As all meaning runs through my fingers, till you am left with nought but the glorious feeling that i have an idea, i have the idea, the world disrupting idea of my generation, i know I have it...somewhere... Till descends despair, Fully aware, Never will I find In which recess of my mind, Resides the proof that I’m a poet After I have mined my most painful memories, put my vulnerabilities on show After a thousand edits After I have spoken my truth, Jubilant I put down my pen... My poem I do not own. I read my poems Not in the usual studious way If silent I read then the words I skip That cause cringing so crushing l actually bleed But at least is makes for a super quick read No I declaim with great pomp my poems out loud No need to wonder You'll gather why later We all know there's far better Indeed I instinctively I turn to you poets on line That make me feel that that day is in sight Whereby I’d be proud to read out loud... to others not just me. For you’re inspiring stories instantly lending Me the feeling Myself I’m leaving Sky bound soaring New world discovering How swift I fly on the wings of your words alone. My poems are not my own For each time I read them Someone else is talking It’s the person who wrote them Telling me something did not know. It’s fascinating to discover all the different people she's been, Of the beliefs she held What to her was dear And the pain of many a loss And this what you get when to slam poetry you listen, An extra dimension You gain from the poem As the author reacts with incredible emotion To words that they wrote But are no longer their own I cannot lay claim to a script The meaning of which Constantly flips When I wrote about my illness And how it would kill me Today when I read it Blatant it shows me How on the contrary Very much I wanted to live And that's the magic As you the slam poet To us that listen You so generously give Not only your poem but your relationship to it A gift to your audience, kaleidoscopic your voice As words iridescent, thrown to audience enthral Collect in heaps, delineate thoughts Paint and re pain instant pictures That evaporate, reform and coalesce in the listeners mind, Come Come spill your thoughts And share with me, with all of us The beauty of the spoken word