Slammed round one at YWP Slams I. Tied with the boy for whom it was written.
You have one of those faces, you know, one of those faces that get stuck in my head, like the songs that you sing like the things that you said like the words that I read in the books on my shelf I keep neat and silent like bits of myself lined up spines facing outward and eager to please us poets all peering, appearing at ease recalling reliving our rememories for a remetaphor or a resimile all recycled reused and reduced to our knees on the floor for the sake of not wasting this day. I've gone twenty-four hours with nothing to say. Teasing rhymes from my head to my lips anyway.
It's hot in this room that I know all too well and it's not I assume you're relief from this hell but I'm caught up in lenses, perspectives unreal; I've been thinking so much I can't tell what I feel. I can't plan for this future. Won't relive the past. I refuse to return to regret for the last transgression, mistake, regression, outtake 'cause I'm learning to laugh not reverting to rage at the mad improv play on this planet-sized stage-- so far-- a tiny blue speck of what we think we are on a vast black expanse of what we are not, and who am I to waste time recording my thoughts? Like some gift to the world! like some way to prove I'm worth more than the energy it takes me to move, to write; seventeen years of recording the trite. Seventeen years spent like this useless day. Seventeen years I'd spend no other way.