FIRST DRAFT The stage is a sacred place that poets come to pray when suicide seems too easy When breathing requires another reason We seek out this space Our fingertips grip microphones like holy scripts Our necks slowly moves back and forth but before we part our lips Our eyes connect and we pause to collect and reflect A degree of respect from the artist who will self-sacrifice next Then our back erects like praying hands as we carefully construct our own crucifix with the Mic stand and with all of our might, we stand ` In between spot lights and busy chatter And with one deep breath we gather Our peace, and our piece and the pieces of us that barely made it to this stage And we pray and we pray for we know this is sacred space This holy place We know and have witness divinity Watched virginity be reclaimed in this space We have seen hymens healed and stranger’s fingers broken in this space Fragments of Fathers have found hope, homes and open arms in this space Sons have set and found home in fathers face in this space Broken women have broken combs, conquered roam and made their thrones their own in this space We write poems on compasses because the lost often roam in this space Miracles are known to be sown in this place Gods are born and grown in this space So we come Seeking solace from the silence secured seconds before we speak We believe like children do that a faithful few will find god in between our mouths and their ears That somehow their applauds and cheers will shepherd in The strength we need to live and die again To lift our backs and try again Hold our heads up and cry again We know this place Like the back of our burdens And we drop our pens Like crumbs For the day we must come back again To die, resurrect and rise again For the hard days when suns lash our back again When standing requires more than the morning gave us and the grave call by name again For when our bodies cringe and we crave our personal version of crack again When wake in the morning to find we are black again and the world reacts again, fingers cant trace facts again When our dead sons becomes another check again When we drench our soul sick in liquor in hopes that we don’t remember today again When women or men find where we have hid our heart and break the parts still whole again When we find our souls sold again When our No is misinterpreted as something other than No again When your best friend drills a dagger in your back and the cock crows again When our prayers don’t grow miracles and we are forced to wrestle with no show gods again When life erodes your stone and all you know is dirt roads again, when life gets hard again And you need to prove there is a god again Week seek refuge here And we hide and die here behind mics and spotlights And we rise and fly here behind mics and spotlights The stage is a sacred place that poets come to pray when suicide seems too easy When breathing requires another reason We seek out this space
Posted on: Fri, 23 Aug 2013 21:22:03 +0000
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