Kill the Podium

Kill the podium.
Burn it down.
Let the fortress walls crumble to the ground.

There’s you,
and there’s me.
We don’t need the stuff between:
I’m not talking AT you.
This is a dialogue.

How can we communicate through a wall?
Where I’m up here,
and you’re…somewhere down there,
belittled by the barrier between us.

The poet is a solitary creature.
She needs the wall to feel safe.
She huddles up behind it,
ducks her head down to the page.
And doing thus, she makes you invisible.

But you aren’t invisible, are you?
Say No.
Say it!

The poet is not ephemeral,
disappearing into a puff of smoke at the end of the show.
The poet is not sublime.

I live and breathe, like you.
I speak and I scream, like you.

So Kill the Podium.
Burn it down.

How can we communicate when I have a shield,
And you, not even a stone?

Poetry is bigger than that.
Poetry is breathing.
Together.
Breathe.
Exhale.

The life we live is too short not to share.

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