As a child, at an age six I stopped finding the phrase;
“Your a poet and you didn’t even know it”
Because, I did know.
Until Twenty Three, I thought it would only be,
Only in writing.
Then, I did my rounds, sometimes ten in a month.
Dues must be paid, when you work with your mouth.
My day job also requires investment.
Running a business in its teenage years,
Doesn’t pair well with expensive hobbies,
Or weekends of beers.
Unfortunately the “This is a new event”
Line, cares little for whether I arrive home fine.
In this world, a girl my age, in her right mind,
Doesn’t travel alone past a certain time.
But the passion that burns my insides,
Won’t allow me to say “No.” Even when
You wouldn’t give me a comp or two,
To ensure I’m accompanied on my home route..
Makes me wonder; If I don’t make it home.
Would you keep a straight face, at my funeral?
“She, was one of Ours.
She, wrote and performed for hours.
She, may still be here, if she hadn’t picked a poem with so many bars…”
Or should I just wise up now and say “No.” From far.
Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet.
There is something,
About standing and speaking.
It’s rather like getting undressed.
So you, seduce me, with acclamation, singing…
“Would you let me, see beneath your beautiful?
Would you let me, see beneath your perfect?”
Then, with your actions, and no other words,
Say; “It wasn’t worth it.”
“Not even what it cost you to get here.”
Guys, its breaking my heart,
And I know I have fans, but
Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet..
I give with my right hand,
I give with my left.
So I don’t have an eating hand left.
In the interests of self preservation, I write,
To get what’s on my mind, off my chest.
In the interest of self preservation, I find,
That I can not afford to invest.
In what gives nothing back for my time,
When I’ve given my best.
So guys, before my inspiration is empty,
Of the little left of my strength,
And I stand before you, as a ghost of myself.
Let me stop, to say. If it goes this way,
I can’t afford, to be a poet.