My hands are slippery against the keys, my face flourished in a bright red. The white, hot, spotlight is high above me, like a beam of searing hot lava running down my face and body.
My throat feels tight, and my memory is unorganized and askew.
I'm going to fail, a bell rings inside my head. All that preparation and practice goes down the drain, swirling in a whirlpool before it vanishes.
But in that moment, right before, I have to feel clear. You don't think, you do. Don't think. Never think.
I am alone. Just as I always have been in moments like this. Nothing but yourself and your task, I tell myself, even though it's not true. I'm surrounded by a sea of judging eyes.
And even when I tell myself I'm alone, I can't get them out of my mind, but I have to proceed anyway. I have no choice, and so I do.
I proceed clearly, doing my best, performing all that I'm confident with doing. I remain unaware of how bad I'm shaking, or how bright my face is, or how rapidly my heart is beating against my rib cage— it's beating so hard I fear it might leap from my chest, and then continue to beat as it flys through the air and squelches across the floor in bloody ribbons of color.
When it's over, and I haven't failed, I finished with shaky hands, and a strong sense of relief and pride at my accomplishment.
I didn't fail.
And I was only too eager to bow and leave the stage.
YOU ARE READING
Unprofessional Poems
PoetryJust poems that were written by a teenager who does really know what she's doing. Please read. I promise they're not terrible- just unprofessional, and sometimes kind of angsty.
