Poetry Reading

We gather in a dimly-lit room

(One that would have been smoky, years ago)

To regale our fellow poets

With our latest creations.

I’ve never been here before.

Never attended a Poetry Reading.

Never considered the bold move

Of reading my little poems

Out loud

To a room full of poets.

I hold my

Two little poems

In sweaty hands,

Preparing to read

(Or not read)

When my turn comes.

I love

My little poems.

I’m proud of them.

I feel like I

Found all the right words

To convey my feelings.

Everything was working

When I wrote them,

The words flowing effortlessly,

To form

What I thought

Was a good poem.

The readings commence.

Pain of broken homes.

Pain of miserable childhoods.

Pain of lost connections.

Pain of the endless, fruitless, search for love.

Pages and pages

Of pain.

There is pain

In my little poem, too

(The first poem, anyway)

But my pain seems to be

On a completely different scale

From that expressed by

These people that surround me

Here tonight.

Apparently

I have not suffered enough

To be a poet.

At least, to be a poet

Who reads their poems

At a Poetry Reading

In a dimly-lit

(though not smoky)

Room.

Can their lives

Truly be filled

With that much

Pain?

Is my life too blessed

To offer Poetry Reading

Material?

These are not my people,

These people filled with pain

And hopelessness

And despair.

These are not my people,

These people whose hearts

Have been ripped from their bodies,

To lie there, exposed, on the page.

These are not my people.

I slip

My little poems

Back into their folder

And hide them

Beneath my purse,

Clutched in my lap.

I leave

With them

Safely tucked away.

Unread,

But safe.

This world is too cruel

For my little poems.