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,
glistening in morning sunrays
set on iridescent spider silk webs.
No. My poem is like a
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
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,
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.ns 18.104.22.168da2