My words flowed from my mouth like a perfectly tuned faucet, as the bright spot light, shinned down on my off-set. The audience didn't object, to the imagery I painted. My stanza's killing to the page for dear life, waiting to be read right; from my eager lips -- sheets shifting, pages crumbling, stomaching rumbling, the audience attention's shifts - and my nightmare always ends like this.

A day dream, about me sharing my gift. The ability to uplift -- then finding my self in deep ****. In the middle of reciting it. I keep relieving, and re-sighting it. All this doubt in my mind, I keep inviting it. That's why I instead of becoming a spoken word, I'll just keep writing it., because stage fright, is some frightening ****.