Shaking Hands

A picture in my head
Memories growing
Designing a threat
And the rhythm is flowing.

And then writing a poem
Designing a poem
Reading a poem
And then sadly changing a poem.

Standing in front of the audience
Sharing my one and only poem
Lacking in confidence
And the words are being thrown.

And repeating nearly the same thing
Like the world has too much darkness
And after the poem it feels like I am living
And coming into my blackness.

Writing a poem is a really hard thing
And making the rhymes that sometimes do not even make sense
And then sharing it to an old king
And he is asking a lot of questions
About the rhythms and connections.

My family in front of my face
Waiting for the poem
Saying my one and only phrase
Words are being thrown.