I wish I'd gone to Biggleswade Town
I wouldn't be sat at the interval
Wearing this frown.
In truth...All I'm guilty of
Is sharing from the heart
I shouldn't blame myself
If I bumbled, falling apart.
Without a doubt
This was my worst performance tonight
I couldn't rescue it
Try as I might.
It's not that I was any good
At the start
Small consolation
For falling apart.
Even my rhyme's
Are the same as before
I'm turning into
A poetry bore!
Time to lick my wounds
And give it a rest
Don't want to end up
A linguistic pest.
The problem is...
While I have thoughts in my head
I can't drop my pen
And say poetry's dead.
It's something I do
That I love and like
So I'll have to persevere
Attempting more Open Mic.
Dulwich Poet 12th February 2014
(I was bloody awful, not prepared, and completely messed up the three poems I tried to read tonight, at an Open Mic spot at 'Before I Die' poetry night at the Torriano, in Kentish Town. This is the second I scribbled, during the interval, as I used on the spot poetry as my 'release valve')
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