i went to an open mic poetry reading last night

sat hunched down in the back

listening to everyone spill their pain and positivity

a lady sat next to me and saw my face go through the motions of emotions

i had stumbled in while on a walk with no intent to read my inner demons to an unwilling congregation

she leaned over and asked if i was going to go up

i shook my head no

she pushed and prodded

i said i would if she did

and she did

spoke like a veteran of war

the battlefield so familiar to my PTSD rattled head

she came back and i bowed to her majesty

she smiled and said your turn

with shaky hands holding my phone

and weak tremulous voice

i read to a room of strangers

stranger no longer

those that had looked in upon another’s soul and offered no judgement

just snapping fingers when moved

and i looked into the bright white light like a beam from heaven on to my unworthy face

and read of my dear in headlights

a chorus of snaps as i found the groove

let the words use me

instead of trying to wrangle them on my own

it took two minutes of fear and anxiety

and when i walked

shellshocked

to the back of the room

amidst a hail of snaps and smiles

i wondered

silently

what would life be like doing this

city to city

reading my personal journals of a solitary journey of searching

i don’t know

she said she’d be back next weekend

and in my head i decided i would be as well

until the next city

the next room of strangers no longer

maybe next time i’ll sit in the center of the room

allow myself to be swept on the ebb and flow of ponderous flows

it was nice

next time i’ll introduce them to you

let them see what devotion looks like when reflected from tear filled eyes

share the you in my mind with a room and let them fall in love with you as well

spread the gospel of a former unbeliever

or i’ll take another walk

and compose a sonnet in my mind

and think so hard upon the words that they reach you

speak then aloud to the squirrels and birds and passing cars

to the trees and grass

maybe poetry needs to be spoken out loud sometimes

if it is ever going to reach the ears of the dearly intended

perhaps my silence is the issue

nonverbal cues can’t travel subsonically through the void between two hearts

who knows