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So I was at an open mic, right? And uh so I saw this lady and it blew me away and I
wrote this poem and I started writing poems and I started getting connected to people
like this and so the poem, the poem, the poem. So
just imagine
that we're at an open mic, it's a cafe, we in philly, y'all drinking drinks, we just
chilling its open mic night,
the regulars are just sitting there, sipping their drinks and barely giving the
first timers a nod, she's standing. Waiting to be ushered to stage
with a dress that looks like it was given in mercy and stitched by broken fingers
from a distance, i can tell she's got scares no one will ever see
and she's traded smiles for empty promises more times than she cares to remember
she's beautiful. With a demeanor that says life, life ain't been so easy, she breathes
into the mic and it starts off a low hum. No one has ever seen her before so we're thinking:
This could go from bad to worst. She weaves a series of notes out of pure air and I swear:
She's got pieces of heaven stick in her throat. Conversations, stop mid-sentences, the words
from these conversations fall from the sky falling to the floor as if unnecessary. Body
pulsing, sweat dripping, her back's arced backwards like she's ready to give birth
to a new sense of rhythm, I can feel goosebumps the size of tumors dancing into my skin,
the band is playing a beat they'll never remember and someone just said they hope this is the
last thing they ever hear. She lets out a high note and we hold our breathe waiting
and willing to pass out caught in this rapture. She ends how she began leaving scars we will
always remember and we just heard hope sing.