Performance Anxiety (a poem)
I walked out of the din, wandered into the yard. I never thought performing would be so damned hard.
I walked out of the din, wandered into the yard. I never thought performing would be so damned hard.
Celebrate what we have been given: this immeasurable gift of expression…
i am the words i speak, i’m the things i do, i’m not how i look, or the things i accrue. you try to define me with the simplest of words but i’m far beyond that, though you think it absurd.
Everything’s already been said. There’s nothing left to say. Everything’s been heard and read. There’s nothing left today.
I flay myself
on the altar of art,
cut down to the bone,
break every last part.
I write it on paper,
type it into my phone,
share it with the world,
and feel utterly alone.
A poem is not found
in an abundance of words.
Nor is it unnecessarily complex.
Poetry is found in the heart
and in the connection it makes.
The dream lost,
unraveled, unwritten,
to aether went,
in a moment forgotten.
Eternal the cost.
The poet’s palette,
an ocean of words.
She covers the canvas,
with notions absurd.
I relish the feeling of crisp new pages,
the scent of ink in the air.
Some, may speak of enchanted places.
A handsome prince, a maiden fair.
Enjoying the beauty of meter and rhyme,
a poem revealed inscribing each line.
One day I’ll be lost to the passage of time,
but dreams will live on in this poem of mine.
© 2009-2025 E.L. Redwine