I remember back when
I performed my poetry for the first time
In front of a whole 107 people.
I was so, so scared…
Scared to let them see the thoughts
That occupy my head.
And I asked my English teacher for help
And he told me
To wield my words like a sword.
And I used to wave it ‘round, swinging it
Like the epitome of innocence
Because I’d never held a sword before.
I never knew what it meant
To hold a blade
I never knew words could ****
And so, I trained.
I learned how to forge a blade
Black ink reflecting the light within,
And I learned how to hold the sword,
Treat the stanzas like the strong extension
Of my arm that they truly are.
I crafted a blade
Poured my soul into a furnace,
Moulded the letters to fit me.
I found ways to slice
The silence of my awe stricken audience
As they burst into applause.
And I never realised
That the sword, its bruised and broken blade,
Would save the blacksmith herself.