On Tuesday, I’m going back to my high school not to visit my teachers and annoy them with every single insignificant detail of my post high school life…
…but I’m going back to give a lesson/writing lab/show a bunch of videos and talk hour in spoken word poetry??
Right now, I’m actually like “dafuq? How?” Because even though I’m only giving this lesson to grade 10/15 year olds, it feels like a big deal, since I’ve never had any public speaking experience aside from in class presentations and radio (where I’m speaking into a microphone in a room by myself so it doesn’t really count).
I hope this will help me build up the courage to compete in poetry slams.
It’s 3:30am and I’m still awake. I wrote a spoken word poem a few minutes ago. It is currently still untitled. Here it is:
I hate the way I feel sometimes. Because I remember a time when I felt just a smidge more whole,
a bit more happy,
a bit more of everything else.
I never took this many trips to the ocean because before, simple words didn’t make me lose my balance.
Now, I feel the salt in my wounds with the rain in my heart mix in my eyes and wash over me like the shower I never wanted.
I want to feel whole again.
I want to feel like all my slices are intact, the empty space in me never existed.
It’s so much easier to get pushed off balance with a hole.
You can sift through the memories, force them through,
yet still be left with nothing as the wind carries them off to another body.
I want to feel happy.
Like truly, utterly happy.
But happiness is a vase.
Once it chips and breaks and loses it’s form,
no matter which way you glue it back together,
it’ll always have cracks.