The poet

Ahh the poet, eager to show you the world
through his words and ideas.
Center of attention, just whenever he can get an audience.

Ahh the poet, slick mouthed, soulful, full of love and full of life.
Then there are those depressed as shit and drink all night.

Ahh the poet, but to no one in particular. I observe quietly in the back row.
Tryin to hold my applause or seize my cough
at the wrong moment.

I keep my mind and my ears open, but sometimes honestly I don't know What the hell ya’ll talking ‘bout.
I can hear the whiplash as you punch the audience with Lines as they gasp and clench their heart and say "ooooh,"
I'm in the back row, and I haven't got a clue.

Veterans and well known voices exchange gestures and laughs between stanza 3 and 4. The audience politely laughs and scream "yeah!" (Suckers who paid 10 bucks at the door.)
For what? To hear a bunch of pros, well spoken and eloquent with their rhymes and dialogues and jokes, while singing the same song they've sung before?
The scene when you look from the outside seems really intimidating.
You gotta have the wits and the snaps to roll with these peeps.
At least studied some books or ran through a few poems by famous authors.
Recited or written a few of your own, or given "roses are red violets are blue" to someone.
I'm not a critic and I'm not hating.
I observe all and feel like I'm with it.
If I don't know something I’ll elbow whoever
Is next to me and just pretend
I'm with it like, "wow!" Did you hear what he said?
Still no clue.

I'm not quick.
My mind runs at a certain pace that maybe some of ya’ll are too fast for.
I pace myself and breathe.
I try to have faith I try to believe.
To me it’s all new. I sit quietly in the back row. Trying to hold my applause and seize my cough. Why?
Because
I'm just waiting for my chance to go up.