Sixteenth row
Waiting for your performance.
I had dozed through the show until you walked on.
Even from my seat,
I knew your palms were sweaty
And your wide eyes squinting under the spotlight.
You opened your mouth
And out erupted moonlight
And stardust
And rainstorms
And fire.
And I swear,
Tears came to my eyes
By your second sentence.
And I can't remember now
What it was you said,
But it was the most beautiful thing
My ears have had the pleasure of hearing.
YOU ARE READING
Art Will Survive, Artists Won't
PoetryThis book is a compilation of free-form poetry that I've written. Most of it is pretty personal, but I hope you'll like it regardless. POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: depression, self-harm, lgbtq+, suicidal thoughts
