"Open Mic"
I came here for inspiration
And what did I leave with?
Tears I did not let go
Knowing we are all here,
Have been hurt, wounded and shattered
At different points in our lives,
Yet we all show up,
Every month
Because we have one thing in common:
The pen gives us hope
As black ink pours out
Slowly from the crevices of our minds
To create a mixed medley
Of honor and justice
Printed on patient paper
Which judges us not.
Our minds are resilient enough
So that when we break,
Those moments come and go
Like a thunderstorm,
As they seem to scorch us,
Happiness torched,
Set on fire.
Yet we refuse to expire
For even when our time is done,
It is our words which have won.
Moments of the past
Cast aside as memories,
Voices lending to experiences,
Fences broken down,
Sounds taking the crown
Of the words which make
A human more than human,
For when poets speak
The world seems less bleak
If just for those moments in time.
Have you seen my last rhyme?
Do you know that it came
From a kind place in my heart
Which starts to cry
Every time I hear worship music
For I worship that I am alive,
That I have more than survived,
That through these words I can thrive,
Contrive of passages
Which will perk up your ears
Make you fear
One moment less,
For the jests of society,
The sorry jokes our lives play on us,
The rusty, bitter truth
Of life and death,
Of rape and pillage,
Of suffering and guilt,
Of silence and empty hands,
Causes you to ignore
The sand between your toes
In the midst of the throes
Of having to live your life.
Where did my inspiration go?
How could I not have known
That we are all so similar
Though the texture of our skin differs
And the frequency at which our
Hair falls out
Is no doubt a sign
That apart from divine creation
Our creative veins
Entangle with the blood of our ancestors
Who made it possible
For us to be here today.
I want to thank you, you, and you,
Each and every one of you,
For lending me your ears,
For letting me provide you
With the culmination,
But not the end,
Of years of writing
For my work is no better than yours.
In fact, the mere reality
Of the truth of your presence,
Right here,
Right now,
In this moment,
Proves the worth of these words
And the next to come.
I know I have not won you over,
Believe me when I say
That the day I stop writing
Will be the day I die,
For why else did God
Grant us the gift
Of a mouth, these lips, your tongue?
I have hung up my pride
On the line to dry
As I try to do good
By this generation of writers
Who are not only fighters
Of joy and justice,
But of patience
And of open hearts.
Thank you for letting me
Start this path,
My words bathing in
The wrath I've left behind.
I am kind
And you are just.
Writing is a must
And I will leave
The dust of the past behind.
Never mind the haters.
Words are a greater form of wisdom.
Give me a stage
And I will grant you
Freedom.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom to live the way you want to live.
Freedom to forgive
Yourself
And to live
With social wealth,
Your mental health refined
And your life redefined.
Thank you.
And what did I leave with?
Tears I did not let go
Knowing we are all here,
Have been hurt, wounded and shattered
At different points in our lives,
Yet we all show up,
Every month
Because we have one thing in common:
The pen gives us hope
As black ink pours out
Slowly from the crevices of our minds
To create a mixed medley
Of honor and justice
Printed on patient paper
Which judges us not.
Our minds are resilient enough
So that when we break,
Those moments come and go
Like a thunderstorm,
As they seem to scorch us,
Happiness torched,
Set on fire.
Yet we refuse to expire
For even when our time is done,
It is our words which have won.
Moments of the past
Cast aside as memories,
Voices lending to experiences,
Fences broken down,
Sounds taking the crown
Of the words which make
A human more than human,
For when poets speak
The world seems less bleak
If just for those moments in time.
Have you seen my last rhyme?
Do you know that it came
From a kind place in my heart
Which starts to cry
Every time I hear worship music
For I worship that I am alive,
That I have more than survived,
That through these words I can thrive,
Contrive of passages
Which will perk up your ears
Make you fear
One moment less,
For the jests of society,
The sorry jokes our lives play on us,
The rusty, bitter truth
Of life and death,
Of rape and pillage,
Of suffering and guilt,
Of silence and empty hands,
Causes you to ignore
The sand between your toes
In the midst of the throes
Of having to live your life.
Where did my inspiration go?
How could I not have known
That we are all so similar
Though the texture of our skin differs
And the frequency at which our
Hair falls out
Is no doubt a sign
That apart from divine creation
Our creative veins
Entangle with the blood of our ancestors
Who made it possible
For us to be here today.
I want to thank you, you, and you,
Each and every one of you,
For lending me your ears,
For letting me provide you
With the culmination,
But not the end,
Of years of writing
For my work is no better than yours.
In fact, the mere reality
Of the truth of your presence,
Right here,
Right now,
In this moment,
Proves the worth of these words
And the next to come.
I know I have not won you over,
Believe me when I say
That the day I stop writing
Will be the day I die,
For why else did God
Grant us the gift
Of a mouth, these lips, your tongue?
I have hung up my pride
On the line to dry
As I try to do good
By this generation of writers
Who are not only fighters
Of joy and justice,
But of patience
And of open hearts.
Thank you for letting me
Start this path,
My words bathing in
The wrath I've left behind.
I am kind
And you are just.
Writing is a must
And I will leave
The dust of the past behind.
Never mind the haters.
Words are a greater form of wisdom.
Give me a stage
And I will grant you
Freedom.
Freedom of speech.
Freedom to live the way you want to live.
Freedom to forgive
Yourself
And to live
With social wealth,
Your mental health refined
And your life redefined.
Thank you.
Copyright Anjuli Nunn 2019
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