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Poetic Performance Anxiety
I don't have that knack
The knack for freedom of expression. Something holds me back.
The possibility of failure and rejection.
I'll do readings all day long: there I can safely hide behind the mic and the paper.
But no, not performances because someone may see that this calm and poise is nothing more than vapor.
I'm all smoke and mirrors--an artfully contrived veneer.
Behind the mask I'm trembling and overwhelmed by fear.
So part of me is still hiding. Yes. That must be it.
The artfully concealed self-deprecation and doubt, I can't allow anyone to see it.
What if I mess up? Or forget my words and freeze?
What if a knowing eye catches mine, strips me bare with a glance and brings me to my knees?
So I'll take along my armor and pray that enough of me still rises from this damp and sweaty, tightly-clenched page,
Deep breaths, girl, and slow.your.pulse.--there's no escaping now--the MC just called your name and it's time to take the stage.
