Poetry Beginnings

The first time I read my poetry to a crowd,
It felt like coming home.

Well, first- I was terrified.
Hands shaking, skin sweaty, voice trembling
But once I started speaking, it felt like I'd been doing this forever
And I mean a feeling stronger than deja vu
this wasn't a memory I had glimpsed in passsing
This was my story waiting to burst from the pages
like my voicebox was a supernova waiting to happen

Waiting to explode and light up the silence of the night sky
pinpricks of stars that look an awful lot like pairs of eyes in a crowd
just waiting
for something
to happen

I found warmth in the spotlight, so I started shining more often
Became less of a visitor and more of a regular
Started leaving my clothes in the closet and my toothbrush by the sink
cause i knew I'd be back.

I found a home on the stage.
Found out that my words hold more weight than I realized,
so letting them go lightened the pressure of thoughts built up in my head
But standing up here being honest with you is harder than it seems.

I've always found difficulty in showing strangers my dreams
the pictures that my mind paints:
soft watercolor memories and harsh charcoal sketches of opinions
chalk drawings of my childhood and smeared pencil outlines of my future
None of them have frames because I never intended to show them off
auction them to the highest bidder
who doesn't mind a mind that sometimes tastes bitter

Alternates between
sharp and biting
and warm and inviting

I never thought I'd be up here, reading my diary pages out loud
because being honest with you means I have to be honest with myself
and there are some things I'd rather not admit
some flaws I'd rather not face
and some faces I'd rather not remember

But some parts of my story transcend my own fears and demand to be heard
to be molded, shaped, and put into words
so this brew of honest tea might be a little bitter
but it has such a nice aftertaste.