Two weeks ago I performed an original piece at an open poetry night. My buddy hosts these poetry readings, entitled "You're All Going to Die", on a regular basis and I have been a big supporter since day one. Sometimes I read something funny, sometimes I aim for intense; I always shoot for authentic.
This last time I performed a piece that hit very close to my bones. It came to fruition over a period of four weeks, words scrawled on the page whenever the inspiration hit me. Sometimes I have to drive myself to the dark side, pull myself to the depths to find the words that I need, the words that lie below in the black. Most of the time I just wait for a night in, a night when my social shell is weak or tired, and my doubts prevail. It takes less exertion then; I merely need to look down at my heavy boots and I drop to the place I need to be. I scavenge all that I can carry, and I empty it onto the page.
I memorized my piece, which was surprisingly easier than I worried it was going to be, and I am so glad I did. I performed my poem to a room full of strangers, friends, best friends, and other writers. It wasn't a recitation as much as a sermon. I was speaking the truth as I know it, spitting the truth, and I didn't have to worry about the words getting mixed up or the lines getting tangled. The truth is the truth, no matter what order it is shared. I preached and I cried. Of course I cried. When I returned to my seat it was hard to control the shakes and the aftershocks of emotion, but people touched me with their fingers and their eyes and I was warmed.