People mill all over the floor of the poetry festival,
like a hive of busy bees, but I’m not there with them.
I’m hiding in a corner of the second floor, hoping
nobody will see or find me, my eyes full of tears.
Why am I feeling this way? I couldn’t tell you even
if I wanted to, just like you can’t explain why the
bee decides to sting you. A happy event like this
isn’t supposed to leave you sad, and yet here I am.
But despite all the confusing noise in my head, which
almost becomes overwhelming, there’s a quiet voice which says,
“It’s better to feel this, than to not feel at all.”
I’m only human after all, any emotion is better than none.
So I smile through the emotions and tears, and
walk down the stairs again. To become one of those
busy worker bees milling about the hive of poetry,
making the sweet honey that we call spoken word.