A Soul's Poetry - Not a Cinderella Story

A/N: I feel this poem needs a bit of background so I'm going to give my two cents before I start. The message behind "Not a Cinderella Story" was sparked by the first poetry slam I attended (where I was enthralled and cowed by the excellent performances in equal measure). It stems from my feeling of inadequacy afterward. Without further ado...

Not a Cinderella Story

So I’ve never done this before

and now that I’m here

I have nothing to say.

Nothing compared to

poems spun from silver,

diamond dewdrops

glistening in morning sunrays

set on iridescent spider silk webs.

No. My poem is like a

blundering giant.

Ground shaking footsteps,

a trail of broken treetops

left in its wake

like twigs underfoot.

My words are like leaden letters

falling off leather tongues

which are nothing like

trilobite fossils,

slender filaments of calcified shell

etched into rock forever.

I cannot compare to

finely woven tapestries

with fairy tale images

that seem to jump off the page.

So I’m stuck standing in the shadows,

afraid to be left in the dark

but also afraid to step forward

lest the spotlight focus in,

blinding.

But sometimes I’m trapped in the spotlight anyway

and Rumpelstiltskin’s name lodges in my throat.

Awkward syllables scattered across the floor

like bracelet beads,

no order to shape meaning

from random letters in alphabet soup.

And I’m standing here waiting for

Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet

and save me from my blundering giants,

and broken bracelets

but this isn’t a fairy tale.

There aren’t any evil step-mothers, glass slippers, or princes.

So I’m left to face my dragons alone in their lairs

where gold puddles mix with dragon flame

as my words are torched and set to burn.

And my own inner demons shutter me

into my past like Cinderella’s step-mother locked

her in the attic to silence her.

I am silenced too

because discontent roils in Moby Dick’s stomach.

A choppy sea does not lend to smooth sailing.

And I am lost because I cannot move forward

without knowing who I was,

and I can’t see the point because I cannot write a poem.

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