The corners of youth

I want to write again.
Write as myself and not as those artists
the slammers, the blessed ones.
The shoes I'll never fit
yet in a misguided stupor
high off the feelings in their words
I put pen to paper and scribble out
silly notions, no revising, no revisiting.
Just writing, in abandon
silly phrases I know nothing of.
Using my elbows to shove my way into admiration
of strangers I know nothing of
except they have come to this room
to hear words.
And I bombard them with my own
attempting to validate my petty dreams
My vanity
alive in my words
and my performance.

God I sound dumb.
Poetry readings have changed my life.
How, not really sure yet.

[i just dont want to end up like rene. no offence bud]

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neighborhood nights

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