My friend Matt and I were talking, about taking a gander at our old journals and relive them. Being able to speak at the Open Mic Nights on Tuesdays at the Gore Street Cafe, provides a multi-range of talents to be shared. With the community of Sault Ste. Marie.
Each week has been a different and revitalized night of music, spoken word, storytelling, poetry, jam sessions, and a little bit of magic. It is really a grand experience. This place holds so much talent. A safe space. A lively place. It really is something else.
Anyways, Matt and I discussed bringing our journals on Tuesday, and read from the prose of past lives. “Nostalgia can be painful” as Matt would put it. Angst and melodrama and also pain held on old pages of diaries and notebooks.
Matt’s are sometimes handmade.
Here is a poem I shared at tonight’s open mic. I apologize for the profanity and ‘slut shaming.’ At 18, I was angsty and also sassy. Enjoy.
Pretty boy don’t waste my time.
Thinking that you’re my saviour.
Pretty boy you think you’re cool with your sexy attitude.
But you’re just fake, with all of your lies.
Why don’t you show some gratitude.
You say, “I’m sexy” and “I’m hot”.
While you wink your your little eye.
But I’ve heard that’s not the smallest thing you got.
Than just your tiny eye.
Pretty boy not worth my time.
Go find someone else to play.
You’re just a slut, who just wants to screw.
Well I’m not your ‘girl’ today.
Come on fella, who do you think you are?
You’re just a little boy.
I’m not some bitch, you can just play around.
I’m not no little boy.
Little boy go on back home, to your dirty box of sound.
Cause the only action you’re gonna’ get is from my memory, in your hand.
Sorry again for the strong usage of language. But I used the word ‘fella’.