Spoken Word

Saying the unsaid


Some moments pass

Some linger for a while longer

You aren’t sure what needs to be done

But your mind is a flurry of activity

You know how to speak

But the words seem to pause, break, unsure

You remember your Toronto English tutor

Reflecting on the disservice you’re doing them;

I know I’m better at this

Better at words.

Behold, there is only silence.

You sit comfortably,

And for a minute it seems quite alright,

Until you realize you don’t need a lyric

To tell you to say something.

Words, pause, more words

Tumbling to the table, on the floor


They look at you and frown at your mess.

“You are so clumsy!” they say

But you can do nothing but stare

Stare at the words, them, their soul

Wishing and longing

For the deep to call to the deep

Where words need no utterance,

Where a single look speaks fluently

Where everything is said

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Poetic Performance Anxiety

I don't have that knack

The knack for freedom of expression. Something holds me back. 

The possibility of failure and rejection. 

I'll do readings all day long: there I can safely hide behind the mic and the paper. 

But no, not performances because someone may see that this calm and poise is nothing more than vapor.

I'm all smoke and mirrors--an artfully contrived veneer. 

Behind the mask I'm trembling and overwhelmed by fear. 

So part of me is still hiding. Yes. That must be it. 

The artfully concealed self-deprecation and doubt, I can't allow anyone to see it. 

What if I mess up? Or forget my words and freeze?

 What if a knowing eye catches mine, strips me bare with a glance and brings me to my knees?

So I'll take along my armor and pray that enough of me still rises from this damp and sweaty, tightly-clenched page,

Deep breaths, girl, and slow.your.pulse.--there's no escaping now--the MC just called your name and it's time to take the stage.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this in about 30 minutes on 3/21/2017. I have so much respect for artists that can perform their work. I don't have that knack for freedom of expression. Something holds me back. Fear of failure and rejection I suppose. I'll do readings but not performances. Part of me is still hiding. That must be it. Cuz what if I mess up? Or freeze? Or forget? Or catch someone's eye that sees through me. #PoetryPerformanceAnxiety


I went shopping with my mother today and
I meant to buy her things to
appreciate who she is but she scared me
when she told me to bring her food
from the car because she felt like
she was going to faint so i was angry,
angry at her weakness and for mine for becoming
scared because i realized that i have an
age, a number that i fill in on job applications,
and that my birthdate publicizes to the world, especially
on facebook, and it says i am old, i am mature, i am
a young adult but my heart stops when
my mother tells me she may be sick
because for a second, i worry not only about her
but about me and how i would live without her
and everytime i was impatient, everytime i was mean i
wish i could take it back, erase my impatience and
erase her weariness and make her better, heal her soul
so she won't be sick so she'll be with me so
I can focus, not on bringing food from the car fast,
but on buying her things to show my appreciation.

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Poems 2010

The world watches me
As I sit near the windowsill
The flowers coming into bloom
Just like our love...

The sun shines down on me
Warming my cold skin
I sit here, looking out
Praying for the day...

For the day we can met
And hold each other gently
As the heavens watch over us
And the wind sings...

But till that day comes
I will sit here near the windowsill
And write my letters to you
As our love grows stronger...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I love you Daniel, and I hope you know that. Though sometimes I feel like I could be better, or you deservre better then me. But you are my heart and soul, the song that sings to me when I go to sleep everynight, and the first thought I have when I wake and the last before I fall asleep. I love you.

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Poems 2010

Sitting here bored
I listen to her talk
My work is done
But not the essay

Class should be over
For we are all ready
To pack our bags
And head on home

But this wont happen
Till the bell rings
Or till Ms. Versley
Says we can leave

And till that time
I may take a nap
As she rambles
On and on and on

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this in class today while my teacher kept talking on and on and on about things I, and the others at my table, already seem to understand.I tried to go five syllables in one line then four in the next. I can';t remember what kind of poem it would be called so, whatever, lol. But all of them are like that but line #8 where it is four syllables and not five.
Hope you all enjoy it

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