last night..

last night i went to neo..
it was something i hadn't done in a long time. i had not been to the new venue. nor had i read anything since nats women's open mic. truth be told, i hadn't recited a poem, or wanted to hear a poem, since before then. if i could trace it back, prolly, early july shortly after eb's wedding, i had truly decided i wouldn't read poetry until early october. unless i could get on the elusive african american open mic or the prestigious women's open mic during nationals. i was called for both, but read at one. and it was the most important one. the one for the women.
the last poem i read was "to my sisters". last night i read, "not another love poem." i read it for me, for her, and the life that we are building together.
i really hadn't made my mind up to go, nor was my heart 100% into it. not that i was coaxed or anything, but i wanted to support eb, who was going back after a brief hiatus, and mz lizz had a new piece that she was truly excited about. and i wanted to support hustle/june, because despite the obvious connection, i admire and respect them on so many levels. more then i'll ever say out loud. but, i just was not ready to go. and am sure it showed in my behavior.
while i felt estranged from everyone in the room, it didn't really matter. i was there to soak up words. i heard a lot of new voices in poetry. sentimentally, i realized i did miss a lot of the people. yet, there has been internal peace in my absence. just not ready to fall into the old, i want so desperately to go back to the older. something that while some believe they remember weren't simply there to experience. i long for the scene before there were soldiers. not bs writing labs designed to force creativity and socialization, talking and writing, because well, hell, we were creative people, not people trying to be creative. i mean, honestly, arrogantly, i miss the original, not the forced version of let's recreate the old, not recognizing there is a history and there is something older. hell there's a history older than my participation.
i want to be the old hungry poet, angel thought was "mean", who stood in the corner, shaking until it was my turn to read. no one knew me. there were no elaborate intros to create an expectation that i can't possibly meet. no judgements. no forced comments or smirks. no purposeful silence as not to let the person know the poem was hot. no .. no.. no (fill in the blank).
and i guess, after watching things unfold in the semi's and ultimately nationals, i have to say i am disappointed, yet not surprised. disgusted, but not so much that i have forgotten that poetry is in the heart and not a venue. no disdain, simply, a new attitude. no judgements, simple observation from someone who has no vested interest in the outcome. because i'm gonna do poetry as long as hustle has a venue or as long as i have a voice... but i'm not going to be the same poet person, just not that vested.
mo, i love you. miss you. wanna see you and guy, but i'm not ready. not yet. let's meet in chicago!
i truly wished it had been in my heart to socialize. because it felt good to see everyone. call it my mood, because that's what i've given you. i'll call it my guard, because, well.. hell, that's who i am. and this month, well this month, means too much to me to allow any one or thing to disturb what my village and g.o.d. has to offer in lessons and growth. this september i will cleanse and purge, walk through fire, live in new skin. i have to treat my mind and heart like my hair and my ____ everyone can't touch it and sure as hell can't be in it.
it doesn't mean that anyone i've extended or who has extended friendship to me is not important, you are and will always be, despite my silence and my distance. g.o.d. placed us in each other's lives for a reason. i just cannot continue the course we've taken. i am no longer comfortable. i'd like to start over. and if we can't, i truly understand. there are consequences to all choices. even my own.
be well.