Death of a Poet

This is not an epitaph for
the lights in my eyes
and this is not a requiem for
the clumsy scoreboards
and this will not be
the ending theme to
our final episode

This is a party
for the last finger-snapping rhymes
for bleeding tongues
and aching hearts

My history begins here,
the struggle to find my voice
I speak my poems too hard
raw passion surging in my veins
my face turns red from the pressure
I am too young to be in this space,
an alien in a human spacesuit,
still clinging to the arm.

I never make a good 10 score
But I don’t care as long as
there is room for
my old polished leather boots
on the carpet stage
naked, all my words laid bare.

So here we go with a-
(Stomp-Stomp Clap)
(Stomp-Stomp Clap)

This is not goodbye
Not yet, I don’t think
The pencilled murals are not yet done dancing,
And yet there is a way to be
when the curtain calls
Say thank you, roll the credits and take your bow.

So this is goodbye
to spaces we used to know

To dancing, to stage dabbing
to falling in love with girls way out of my league
to learning that there is no league
to breakups, to connection.

This is where I learnt to stop being sorry
This is where I learnt to march to the beat of my own drum
This is where I will have to learn to say goodbye

Three minutes will never be never enough
to learn to love myself
but I’ve been here for three years running so
perhaps the math should count
Where will we go?
aliens in spacesuits, spinning past the stars

Are these three minutes what I have left?

This is not an epitaph for
the lost poetry slams
This is not a requiem for
bottles of silence, carelessly strewn
This is not a final poem
this can’t be a final poem.

For this is not the end.

This is not

The End.

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