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R B M Oct 2019
Walk up the steps,
          Sit on the stool,
                  Adjust the mic,
                         face the lights,
                               And sing.

Strum the strings,
Hear how your voice rings.
Close your eyes,
And shed your disguise.

Sing about the things you feel,
The things that don’t seem real .
Sway with the song,
And hear the crowd sing along.

Don’t think about stumbling on the words,
Or tripping over the cords.
Hear the melody and hum,
Think about the applause sure to come.

All your problems left when you stepped on the stage,
Now it’s up to you to finish the song, to write another page.
It may seem like hell
But you gotta step out of that shell

Strum the strings,
Hear how your voice rings.
Close your eyes,
And shed your disguise.

I promise that everything’ll be alright,
You’ll win the fight.
The stage fright won’t last long,
So sing your song.

Walk up the steps,
               Sit on the stool,
                          Adjust the mic,
                                  Face the lights,
                                                And sing.
Adrienne Jul 2019
I would sing
because I'm good at that
boy, do I have pipes.
but I'm terrified
upon this stage
all of you looking at me
Part of me thinks it would be fun
if not for my parents in the audience
looking at me expectantly.
I've never felt at ease
doing it for them.
That open mic keeps standing there
posters, stages, coffee shops
but I can't.
I'll try anything but this.

I sometimes feel
as if my parents wish I would perform
like when we watch
'School Of Rock' or 'A Perfect Chord'.

I guess I always thought
it would go away when I got older
but it's MY choice.
I have to decide.
will I lift my voice
or stay stubbornly silent?
Arisa Mar 2019
I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.

The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.

My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.

Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me

And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.

Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.
I was never an expressive actor, but the small roles I was given at school plays  and home-brewed sketches I was grateful for.
trf Nov 2017
stage life...
is so complicated
they'll confiscate it
your eyes will summit
their stocks will plummet

stage life...
is an oxymoron
you'll labor for em
your body's numb, once
stitched seams come undone

lick your finger.............
                     wine rims sing about it
lick your finger.............
                     counter to clockwise flow
lick your finger.............
                    add your liquidity
lick your finger.............
                    finer tuned frequencies
lick your finger.............
                   consume their recipe
lick your finger.............
                   won't find harmony
lick your finger.............
                   blood soaked oath's decrees

stage fright...
it comes in droves
watches all your moves
ebbs and flows

cautiously, write about it
cannot hide, darkest hours
insatiably, desired thirst
tie dye shirts, passion's curse
drink whiskey, pour a cup
no replies , it's all ****** up.
Pray for me today
As I go onto a stage
I just need His peace.

— The End —