I Used to Think I Couldn't Be a Poet

I guess it's time for me to share some of the writing that I claim keeps me so busy. I have a show this week, at which I will be performing this piece, so......while you read, I'm going to go practice!!

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I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I hadn’t struggled enough --
Hadn’t earned my stripes.
Because me and my three brothers all had the same parents,
And we lived with them both.
My mother didn’t beat me while cussin’ me to high heaven and my father didn’t sell drugs.
I had never eaten a mayonnaise sandwich,
Played in the street without shoes
or
Lived in one of the recognized, under-developed, soon-to-be-gentrified neighbourhoods in a major metropolitan.
My family was only poor enough to go without cable or a home phone for a spell
Sometimes our water ran cold from the tap, but there was always water
And there was always a tap
As a fixture in the bathroom of a house we had never been evicted from.

I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I didn’t have a political stance behind my words.
I was part of no un-televised revolution – just self-revelation
And a resolution to be a producer of peace.
I had no stories of sit-ins, set-ups or set-backs at the hand of “the Man.”
No conspiracy theories to share
No colours to wear bearing the symbol of my allegiance.
I thought it
Because my verses lacked an essential racial undertone
Intertwined with pride, marginalization, historical references.
Because to strangers, my voice without my face often leaves them wondering about my race.
Because I have not often felt the frustration of overt discrimination
Nor the reported solidarity of racial unity.
Because I went to school with children who looked like me
And who didn’t,
Worked with those that looked like me
And those who didn’t
And it rarely dawned on me to care.

I used to think I couldn’t be a poet
Because I wasn’t an extreme feminist
Because I shave my legs and date men and believe in chivalry.
Because I spell "woman" with the word “man” embedded therin,
Love me some high-heeled shoes and acknowledge the power of flirtation.
I have had my heart broken by a man or two
But never my jaw
And have found a way to forgive the two who had used their maleness and my unattended drink to their benefit...
Because I wasn’t angry enough
To scream “f you” to all the XYs in the room.

I used to think I couldn’t call myself a poet
Because I hadn’t developed my poetry voice.
I hadn’t mastered the rhythmic staccato,
Roller-coastered inflections,
Intonation that leaves
You
Begging for the next word.
Because I hadn’t yet learned how to woo the crowd
And sometimes my poems rhymed.
But not in that cool Black Ice kinda way…
I didn’t feel my subjects were deep enough,
Nor were they commercially sellable.
Because I wasn’t as lyrically creative as home-grown Drake
Wasn’t quite confident enough to pull off sexy
And, hell, I wasn’t even that funny…

All I had were my stories to share

So I stopped trying to be what I thought a poet should be.
Stopped trying to be a poet
And just was…

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Until next time, 

The Single Chick