Open Mic Night

Reads: 311  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 2

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is a piece I wrote for a friend of mine, Mandi, it took quite a while to complete, but you can't force inspiration.

I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The setting is pretty evident, so just let the poem paint a picture for you.

[For more, visit]

Submitted: January 16, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 16, 2016



They called up
The first poet of the night
They happened to mention
She was a virgin to the mic
So I sat up
Waiting with baited breath
Waiting to hear the words
Of this gifted mistress

She stepped onto the stage, shyly
Clutching the little black book
Where she locked away her writings
I sipped on my drink idly
As she lowered the mic-stand
To her height, ‘cause she was tiny

I couldn’t help but wonder
If the intensity would overcome her
Would her little voice resound
Over the bustle of the crowd?

But then she spoke
(But not before she cleared her throat)

“Bleed me these footprints,”
She said,
And we all listened
“Let them lead to the paved paths of my heart
Following trickled rivers
To the bottomless wells where tears pool
And it’s bitter truth
That steals our youth
And moves to skew our twisted view
Succeeds to move you restless few
Into a room
Into this room
With smoky hue
And mostly you
Are attuned to suit
The ones you choose
To vibe to.”

She paused to
Inspect the crowd who
Had fallen mute
With nothing to do
But look at this jewel,
We click and moan in tune
Letting her know to continue
Puppeteering the listening minds in this venue.

“Be not sheep to sheepishly shift
I’m sleepily slipping you gifts
I’m a teacher still seeking the truth
A seeker beseeching my youth
Eagerly eating its fruit
Easing the meetings that root
Or uproot the raw rouge
And reroute our up-shoots
And responding in reflexive tunes
That you whistle to street birthing moons
We whistle at her, we humanoid pan-flutes
Words are brittle to her, like porcelain statues
What else can you do?
And what more can she do
But turn, smile, and say thank you.
Simple words that she hands you
But words are fragile to you, like paper swans be
She folds paper, cut, us humanoid origami
Folding paper planes, thrown to where the stars meet
Hoping love notes will find a calmer sea
Resonating with this reflection of me

What else can she do?
And what else can you do
But turn, (look upon the dark side of the moon)
Smile, and say thank you.

Thank you”
She says with a smile

And the crowd goes wild.

© Copyright 2020 Lwazi Molepo. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments: