All the world's a stage and all men mere players.
What shall I have to show when my call for exit rings and the curtains are drawn?
Besides words forged as poetry.
What shall be said as I walk off the stage besides that I lived in my mind?
And tried to appease people by trying to look more artistic
and deep
and soul
and tortured
I ain't no Shakespeare nor Lebo Mashile
I'm just a scared little girl playing a poet
Only her vocabulary isn't broad enough, she doesn't speak of hauge or vim
Her words drown in cliques and well, she ain't poetic enough cause she doesn't have enough rage nor confidence to be a poet!
She doesn't have enough activism nor roses to spread
She isn't as reckless nor as free as a free verse
She's fixed and yet tries to be free cause there is no such as a caged poet
And yet the nerves around her brain are as hardened as steel bars
She doesn't wear a doek around her dreadlocks and promote natural beauty
One day she's bleaching her skin the next she's writing poems against it
Yesterday she had black braids today they are pink because black is too plain for an artist and she ought to look the part
The next she got a weave then an afro followed by a chiskop
I will be more me she says
What more will be said than that I was a poet playing other poets?
