I'm definitely not crying. Let me stop lying. Last night I did my first poetry reading. I was expecting so much from myself even though I knew this would be my first time and all. I knew I wasn't going to be able to rip it like the accomplished poets, but I wanted my sh*t run smoothly. At first I was psyched and ready to do my thing but it just seemed like the closer it came for my time to perform the my stomach churned more and more. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking and to make things worse I accidently repeated a verse. I did get a couple of compliments, but as far as I'm concerned, it was out of pity. My girlfriend said that I did well, I just have to slow it down. After I got of the stage the only thing I wanted to do was get in my bed bury my face in my pillow and have a long cry. The funny thing about it is that I have no desire to be a spoken word poet. I love writing poetry. The only reason I decided to perform my work is because of my book. I figured it would be a good way to get myself out there.
Anyway despite it all I still plan to read more ofmy poetry. I'm just going to have to learn how to deal with my anxiety. I want to share the poem that I read. The poem is about myself and I hope you guys like it.
Revenge of the Chickenhead
the spirit of the south was always in her
no matter how many times she tried to deny
it was always pulling her back
back into the cotton fields of
Brookhaven Mississippi
where her daddy's roots payed dues
while her mama's blood ran through her veins
headstrong and stubborn to a fault
she was determined to break
the ties that bind
only to find
that the apple really doesn't fall
far from the tree
incestual residues compounded by a springtime stolen
were all that remained
as she clucks her way in this ice cold world
deaf
dumb and
blind
full of trife
her mama's stench emitting from her pores
smellin' fowl
as she clucks
for that ultimate baller that really doesn't exist
but she don't know that cuz she's still stuck
on 106 and Park
infatuated with phantasmagoric images of rented lives
while her trick mentality multiplies
now she's riding white horses and
sliding down poles
her tippled soul remains in a daze
as she clucks for beauty over brains
clucking for the times she spent
stuffing her face til her belly ached
vying for the world's biggest booty
so roach infested minds can stalk and gawk
screamin'
DAAAAAAAMN!!!
as she
clucks
clucks
clucks
her way down busy streets
self-esteem wedged firmly between the crack
of her ass
as she clucks
for Moschino, Versace, and Prada
only to shop and cop a pair of
$12.99 Mudd Jeans
fittin' her booty to a tee
head gassed up
as she clucks
in vain
for a life unstrained
only to find that the yellow brick road is paved with
segregation
degradation and
exploitation
as beautiful minds lay wastin'
strung out on welfare as section 8
flows through their veins
caressing their complacent souls
leaving track marks on their institutionalized minds
stuck in the system and can't get out
at least that's what they want you to believe
as they
medicate
segregate and
manipulate
but see the blinds are now open
as she clucks for change
scarred and marred
but the fight never stops
as she plots her escape from a culture aborted from
tainted wombs
a runaway slave of the system strugglin' for the world
to hear her battle cries
as jealous souls spit hate while she elevates her
mind
body and
soul
searchin' for destiny which lay within
the confines of her mind
as she clucks
By F. Ann King
Last edited on Saturday September 18th, 2004 15:40 by Cypress
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