Existing means you're connected.
Last night I read from the soul to a room full of prettier, happier spoken words, and with applause they accepted.
A stranger's own soul spoke before me, touching me in my heart made of art.

He was LOUD, a staccato.
Fears waved over my whole body like an ugly vibrato.
My voice had no hint of repose,
Just worry echoed all over my prose.
How could I compare? He evoked my tears with his descriptions of misrepresented women rappers,
Spoke my small sorrow filled words and world views, imagery I hope I captured.

They shouted "Do you have more?" as I sheepishly fled,
Setting my worries down alongside my purse, from the heart I read.
I told stories about my failure to be loved by you,
How the heart originally cried, but chose happiness, refused to be blue.
With that I spoke of dreams, that held me together like glue.
I know what all these connections mean now, this is what I'm meant to do.