Micro Phone

 Microphone. 
 It’s a microphone
 And they expect me 
 To speak into it 
 They expect me to lean forward 
 To put my fingers 
 Around the black plastic 
 To open my mouth 
 And begin to read something 
 Some poem
 Some essay 
 Some teenage angst writing
 The longer I sit here
 The longer they wait 
 They’re growing expectations 
 Bigger 
 And bigger
 Expectations
 Of the brilliance 
 They expect
 To be attached
 To my tongue 
 It’s a microphone
 On this little stage 
 With a yellow spotlight 
 Beating down on my back 
 Like the sun 
 On the beach 
 They’re all waiting
 They aren’t going to talk 
 They aren’t going to move 
 They aren’t going to breathe
 ‘til I speak 
 They expect me to grip 
 this microphone 
 they expect me to grip 
 these white sheets of paper 
 with the crumpled edges 
 from my nervous fingers 
 and they expect 
 my mouth to open 
 for me to rhyme 
 for me to get angry 
 for me to explode 
 on the stage 
 Big expectations from me
 I don’t see them 
 Up on this stage 
 I don’t see microphones 
 In their empty hands 
 Just empty coffee cups 
 And empty mouths 
 And open ears 
 Not tonight
 I want to say 
 Not tonight
 Your expectations 
 Aren’t going to be lived up to 
 Tonight 
 This isn’t my night 
 This isn’t my stage 
 This isn’t my spotlight 
 This isn’t my microphone 
 This isn’t my night
 This just isn’t my night
 But the microphone 
 Hisses at me 
 I become aware of the stool 
 Beneath me 
 How my feet 
 Don’t touch the ground 
 But rest gently on the wooden rungs 
 The papers in my hand 
 Are glaringly white 
 And the microphone just hisses 
 It’s a microphone
 Its just a microphone 
 Do something with it
 Make it sing 
 It’s just a microphone 
 And these people 
 Are waiting for you
 They’ve got expectations
 Aren’t you going to lean forward now
 Aren’t you going to smile 
 Introduce yourself in a voice so clear 
 Give some little explanatory speech 
 About what you’re about to read 
 And then raise the paper to your eyes 
 Read the first line
 And then let your mouth 
 Continue the rhythm 
 That’s how it works
 Right
 (remember
 This isn’t my night) 
 Aren’t you going to 
 Let your knuckles turn white
 Around the black shaft
 Of the microphone 
 Aren’t you going to shift 
 On the downbeat of the words 
 Shift your feet on the stool 
 Aren’t you going to rise 
 To your feet at one point 
 With a fist above your head 
 Waving it around  
 To illustrate a few lines 
 What kind of poet are you 
 Really now
 What kind of poet are you 
 Just looking at the microphone 
 They expect me to do something 
 They expect drama 
 They expect either something beautiful 
 Or something charmingly ugly 
 To spill off my tongue 
 Whichever 
 But they expect something 
 Sitting on stage 
 Just sitting there
 Waiting 
 They expect something 
 It’s the burden you choose to bear
 When you write your name on the board 
 With that fat red marker 
 Always noticing its toxic smell 
 It’s the expectation you chose
 To receive 
 When you climbed up here
 You knew what they’d want from you 
 Can you give it
 Can you give it
 Can you give it
 They expect it 
 You took the stage 
 You’ve got 15 minutes 
 Going to use it sitting here 
 Or maybe you’re going to decide now 
 To fill their expectations 
 There you go 
 Lean forward
 Wrap 5 fingers 
 Around the microphone handle 
 Put your mouth close to it 
 Let that smile play across your face 
 Introduce yourself 
 Explain your piece 
 Lift the papers 
 Read the first line 
 And begin 
 Begin to give them their words 
 Begin 
 Begin 
 Begin 
 Reach some climax 
 Clench the fist 
 Illustrate the words
 Leap to your feet 
 Pull the microphone from the stand 
 Raise your voice 
 Finish with a flourish 
 Replace the microphone 
 Leave the stage 
 There
 You gave it to them 
 You gave them every bit of it   

 And in one poem 
 I can take away the magic 
 Of the slam poet 
 I can show the mechanics 
 Of the slam poet 
 I can show the simplicity 
 The recipe for a poem 
 By a slam poet
 It’s the stool 
 It’s the spotlight
 It’s the fist 
 It’s the flourish 
 And the proud stance
 Nothing magical 
 Nothing super natural 
 Just some person 
 On some stage
 with some papers
 with some words 
 with some microphone 
 and some expectations. 

this is magic. your words are magical. i am wowed and my mouth hangs open. i only wish i could watch you perform it. :) RoyaBoya