Spoken word.
It ain't about
rhymes
sonnets
Shakespeare, Dickenson, or Poe.
It ain't about
the iambic pentameter flow
or the 5-7-5 of a haiku.
It's about
the heartbeat
the pulse that courses through your very soul in a rhythm that is completely
you.
It is YOU that falls from trembling lips
into the figurative and literal microphone before you;
YOU who breathes life into words that would
otherwise be considered
scribbles on a page.
It's an essence
a way of being
and beating
the drum of your being
that would otherwise have you hanging---
on tenterhooks,
waiting for permission
to raise your voice above the rest
just so you can feel
like you've got something to say.
And child,
you do.
You got a story all your own
a thunder that outnumbers
the roar of the lions that are too busy
with their 9 to 5 to stop
and listen.
So don't think you have to shout
just to be heard
but don't you whisper the words
that mean so much
but can seem so small.
They ain't.
Those words are your fists,
balled up tightly and raised high in the air
demanding the attention of anyone who will just
listen.
They strike
again and again
breaking the air and airwaves
with a newfound
beat
so don't you think
your fists are too small
to mean something
because child, they ain't.
Raise your words high
with that of your peers
and chant them again and again
like it's the last war cry that will ever
be heard
around the world
your voice is strong.
It echoes
and shakes the earth to it's very core
like a stampede
so don't you stop
don't you stay silent now
just step up to the mic like this
will be your legacy
your last words to live by
and the first words to make you
reborn.