Flashbacks

Voids in Voice

there come days when i say i'm going to write a poem

return to slam and get back to honing

But all i do is slip stick-it lies from under my tongue

because i'm stagnant

say i will freewrite like there was no birth of a tomorrow

slice and dice the literary cholesterol through revisions later

but i slice, dice, and snort the non-creative substance of apathy

on a marble table.

i'm walking this path of uncompleted journals

fragmented thoughts

wasted papermate pens

and a malnourished mind that doesn't feed off influences like it should.

i've been a stagnant slammer and a writer

who hardly finishes mosaics of hyperboles.

i'm that metaphor that's 25% aware of who and what i am

50% struggling to get my skinny legs to crystallize my yellow brick road

5% feeling like i shouldn't rage against the dying of my own light

20% accompanied by the insecurities of the stories i want to tell.

i'm stagnant to the point to the point where i can't move

from hallucinations of hazardous mud rising up to my ankles

and while i'm having these moments

something forces me to drift to the visions of my artist chronology.

it rewinds to age 7

where i loudly expressed through effeminate body language that said

'mama! i need you to please take me to walmart

so i can get another notebook

to follow up with the 80 pages of proper english

i just shitted with my left hand!'

fast forward to age 15

performing in an amateur poetry slam in a library auditorium

interlocking eyes with this mastermind

that i nicknamed suheir hammad, jr

who wrote, taught, and got a degree in chicago

altogether our four eyes saying

fuck this! this heat needs to be freshhhh...

fast forward to present-day

where i'm sitting in a st. louis hotel room

laidback to the conversations

between the 3rd ranked in the world wordsmith i studied under

and my two poetic counterparts

who i spit lifelong financial hardship poems with 15 hours later

in a ballroom full of educators.

i'm reminded that this laziness

this long stream of writer-performer's block

this not giving a fuck about where my next open mic performance is going to come from

this me not having read, featured, or slammed in any venue

for nine months

is not me.

after warm standing ovations following us taking a bow

i'm approached by a man who tells me

while shaking my hand

'you have a talent. i see you going national'

my mouth responding with

'i'm getting it together'

and my inside voice presses pause on my life and says

'while you're getting it together

look at your upper arm

and ask yourself why you tattooed "write." in the first place

why every night you battle insomnia

and can never pound out a page.

remember that you are the curator of this museum

that houses all of your brainchildren

and never question why you are an artist'.

i'm forever reminded.

with that i take my place

starting now.