A Lone Speaker

Open Mic Night at Stacker's THURSDAYS 10:00

A survivor walks in, from what? Who knows.

Picking up the mic that was left on the stage.

“I offer this poem in my own voice.”

I go to stand before a crowd, my life blue.
Fighting an undying urge to call to you, my love.
Witnessed from below the blackened road of few, pools of crimson.

Keeping calm and dry, unlike a certain two.
Watching as they drown, within a slew of dew.
Hurting from your pain, the amount they caused you to suffer through.

How I miss the smell of your shampoo, my love, and joy.
Oh, how I wish we could begin anew, to keep creating memories.
Alive and well, so I can hold on to you. My friend and lover.

My heart, my soul, my very being. Broken.
Harmed for a lack of foreseeing. Dying.
By the groups of Imaginary unageing beings. Hatred flows.

The blood runs thick like black cherries. Along the wounds.
My mistakes for not being cautionary. The price too high.
My entire life, fragmentary. The want to die.

Instead of rambling on. Like past voice.
An effort to avoid bloodshed. Enough has spilled.
I take my leave. To avoid my soul from being red. Staying blue.

A damaged being.

A survivor.

Leaves the stage changed.

Til next week.

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