Last night I lived in a place
where every person communicated
in slam poetry.
We threw the truth out there
beautiful and bare—
clarity in metaphor.
The words charmed even the few
that found their niche
in refusing to listen.
No sweet tooth for sugarcoats—
we devoured in transparency.
The right words flowed steadily
out of our mouths
and seeped down our chins—
like we were born to do it.
Every expelled word
gingerly painted by way
of our eager tongues
and thirsty lips.
What we had to say
could be stopped by nothing.
Now,
imagine my disappointment
when I woke up
and couldn't even find the courage
to tell you
“good morning.”
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
Last night I lived in a place
where every person communicated
in slam poetry.
We threw the truth out there
beautiful and bare—
clarity in metaphor.
The words charmed even the few
that found their niche
in refusing to listen.
No sweet tooth for sugarcoats—
we devoured in transparency.
The right words flowed steadily
out of our mouths
and seeped down our chins—
like we were born to do it.
Every expelled word
gingerly painted by way
of our eager tongues
and thirsty lips.
What we had to say
could be stopped by nothing.
Now,
imagine my disappointment
when I woke up
and couldn't even find the courage
to tell you
“good morning.”
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2014
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