The Unheard Spoken Word

When I first started out in poetry,

I was eager, I was fresh and so keen.

Those in the know said I really should go

and check out my local poetry scene.

When I arrived at the busy bustling venue,

the place was packed with people turned up to read.

I found that everyone was dressed the same,

silk scarves, striped shirts and glasses they didn’t need.

I sat enthralled as a poet described a cold winter morning,

I could almost feel the chill and see the frost glistening,

when I said as much to the woman sitting next to me,

she said, oh really? I wasn’t really listening.

As the other readers performed their pieces,

the crowd scrolled on their phones or chatted,

completely ignoring the poet on stage,

as if it was only their own work that mattered.

While I had come along to hear spoken word

as a change to the poetry books on my shelves,

looking around at those here tonight,

they were here only to listen to themselves.

I had come along to this event so excited,

and ended with getting my fingers burned,

those there that night were playing at being poets,

and it was time I was leaving, lesson learned.

I don’t care if open mic poetry

and spoken words nights are now all the rage,

I’m going back to my books and my pen and paper,

my poetry will now purely be on the page.