Every time I do it
the nerves gnaw at my stomach,
tired from the disturbed sleep
of the night before,
I have been practising my poems
every night this week,
but still there’s the dread
that I will mess this up,
that the words will stick
in my throat,
that either my poem
or myself will fall flat,
excitement mixes with anxiety,
as I buckle myself in to the fairground ride,
and my name is called,
Next up we have….
and so clutching my papers
I step out onto that stage
and into the bright white glow
of the spotlight.