The Poetry Marathon

Someone just said I,

That is, Special K,

Should be a “pre-requisite course in everything in all schools”

And I can’t stop smiling…

More than that, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact-

That people actual, generally and really like this thing called poetry

I happened upon…

Because much like this poem,

My life has largely been spent-

Untitled.

Stupid is not a nice word.

It shouldn’t be used.

But I’ve got to know.

How could you have been so stupid?

We all make choices that don’t reflect very well on our best person.

But this takes the cake.

Stupid isn’t a very nice word-

But it is apropos in this situation.

For the first time…

I have considered not even starting-

Wait. That is a lie.

At the very least, I should be practicing honesty.

I have thought about not starting a gazillion times in my life.

I am fabulously great at not starting.

Not starting would make an excellent book.

But it would never be read, because it would never be written.

Because I am smitten by not startin.

The hour is here.

Time to get my butt in gear…

But, not for the first time,

I question the legitimacy-

Wonder at the failure rate-

And think I simply won’t pick up my pen and start to write…

But once again, I hear the echoes of my childhood-

Reminding me that I’ve got to be better than them.

Thus, I find myself…

starting again.

If I March for justice

That makes me nothing less than human

If I demand the police beheld accountable

I am nothing more than human

If I bang on doors and ask all my neighbors to sign the petition

I am nothing less than human

And if a man calls out for his mom as the air is squeezed forever from his lungs and the life goes out from his eyes

I am nothing more than a roaring mama bear

You’d expect no less action or behaviour on my part if it were your child left in my care.

I wasn’t there, but my heart ached just the same

And I knew exactly on whom to place blame.

But you took one look at me

And with not much more than a passing oncepver type of glance

You labeled me just another angry black woman

And shoved me out the back door.

But let me assure you, I am nothing more

Than human

And us humans will one day even up the score.

I’m over it

Not writing

But performance

I feel alone

Like no place is home.

I’m tired

And I just don’t know

If I can mass produce

The energy it takes

To maintain this smile upon my face

It all feels incredibly fake

And again I say…

I’m over it today.

What hours are we in?

I don’t know

I’ve just finished a street party

And perhaps the drink was just a little too plenty

I’m just kidding- I don’t partake in the drink

So what other excuse could I have…

Maybe it’s time I go.

Again, I don’t really know.

I’m just another poet

There’s nothing special about my voice or the words that my vocal chords produce

I’m just another person whose passion has been overturned

It spills over and covers the ground

I’m just another poet thinking thoughts

I cannot be bought

I look around and see this catastrophe that surrounds all of us

But I am not troubled

For I know this is only just the beginning of the end.

I am a person just like you

I am a poet

I’ve always known it

The only difference between you and me

Is that when I bleed it is with words that cause an unstoppable floetry

I’m just another person. I dare you to step forward  and try me.

Some need new digs

To feel good

Or hit the town.

As for me, I just need to throw on a wig

Add a lil rouge

A small helping of Unxle Scrooge’s loot

And I’ll be ready to hit the town in my favorite dancing boots!

Are we done?

I think I’m done

No? Oh. Well damn.

My congratulations and many accolades

Will just have to wait

Til it pleaaes the  fates.

I won’t give up

I’ve never been a quitter

If you ask my mother thinking thoughts like that are surely a sin

We will all win

So long as we keep pushing until the end

But just right now, a nap would be good though.

We are half way there-

I won’t give up

I shall not quit

I will see what the end is gonna be.

-Asé