Distance – Spoken Word Poem

So, I write a lot of poetry and I have recently fallen in love with spoken word poetry. Here is my attempt, I’m not sure how well I performed it, but let’s see.


I sit in a room, on a floor, three stories up in a building built brick by brick in the eye of a needle

because brick by brick is what i need to weigh down the stitches

and rooms lie adjacent and across

just a stones toss from the shot that reverberates through a glass

we make it in but we never make it out

words are like stones, yes

they hit and they cut but they grow old with moss

but lift them up and a world lies beneath

the terror stories of your territories unsheathed they breath life into that glass that lies in the eye of a needle that lies idle until you and i stop biting the rim of our idols

I sit on my floor as you do on yours

we sit three stories up

i said, we should free our stories up

and notice how the word terror is so central to territory – the fear of psychic space is the integral component in our main opponent which is only the fact that we feel the need to own it

because even from three stories up, there lie floors above, and I look up at you and you look up at me and we judge

me by the length of my pubic hair, you by the fact that you are here and not there

I’ve got back fat and arm fat and all kinds of stomach fat, and I’ve heard that one before, if I flap my wings hard enough I might just take off

And so if I do, do you know where I’ll land? Back in that glass held fast by a shaking hand that neither lifts nor puts down and only holds another when we break fast
we’ve grown a moat around us, and that’s just to stop us from drowning

because if our feet cross this threshold, the world around us starts compounding

because some feet cross the threshold, while other feet hit the beat of the humdrum thrice shunned… it was just the way you asked

we walk in circles, and our footsteps bang out beats in our brains like a metronome, judgement and condescension being its most notable cornerstones… it clings to us like condensation, a ring on the table is anything but stable

and even as i walk, back to my building in the eye of a needle, i can feel a thousand needing eyes watching me, telling me, that the distance between you and me, is scarily and evidently,

no, as a matter of fact, reverse that

our distance lies in proximity

when the change in my pocket, becomes change in your hands, well, maybe then we can inhabit the same land


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