The Poetry Slam That Could Have Been

It’s 6-am on Monday, March 23rd 2015. I just came to the realization that my 8am class was cancelled, but the sunrise is luring me in. I found myself humming along to “Here Comes the Sun,” another 24 hours. I always tell my friends who are the midst of a bad night to sleep it off, and wait until the day renews itself. Today was one of those days, I planned on letting the day renew itself, and renewing my mindset. 


Does anyone else develop a kind of stutter when they’re nervous?
When you have to speak out loud in class, or in front of a crowd and you stammer on your own words even though you know what you want to say.
I do that often.
I’ve sung on stage, danced Portuguese folklore in front of hundreds (don’t laugh), I’ve done monologues, and even acted out my own character in a play, I mean…you’d think I’d be comfortable by now.
I don’t understand why poetry would be different, but it is. Because it’s fresh.
It’s a fresh wound, and I’m out of bandages.
As soon as my Professor suggested I compete in the Poetry Slam, I thought it’d be a great idea considering I had enough material to work with and I’d be 100% invested in it because of my mindset that week.
However, as I’m writing this the night before the Poetry Slam (Late February), I’ve decided against doing it.
I’ve got something to work with, and according to Diana it’s tear-inducing, something a lot of my work has been capable of doing lately, but I probably wouldn’t be able to read this out loud. The nervous stammer is the least of my worries.
It’s more than that.
It would be a room of people who have zero idea who I am, considering I’m not very active in the English department of Ryerson, and it’s not what I’d want from the piece.
Being $100 richer would be nice for my closet, but no amount of money would suffice for public vulnerability.
(Says the woman with a blog)

I’m in my 3rd week of March, and the last time I edited this post was February 27th. I sat in the basement hallway of Lisa Marie on Queen, and wrote out a bit of the rough draft on the wall, after staring at it, I decided that it was time to post it. My pieces have connected me with such wonderful individuals. I have friends of mine using this blog as their safe haven. People send my blog posts to their love interests because somehow I’ve been able to write what they’ve been trying to piece together and say. Unfortunately I’ve decided that after this post, I’ll be taking a One Month hiatus until exams are over. Instead I’ll be posting featured writers, and their efforts. I’m so close to 7000, and I am incredibly thankful for everyone who’s inspired posts, and clicked them even if they’ve given up halfway because they’re too long. (Don’t walk away from this one!!!)

So here’s to the poetry slam that could have been, artistic freedom, and self love.
A rare kind of self love, where it’s selfless. Not about the necessity of the other being showing you love, or affection.
But rather you showing it to yourself, and being content with the idea of your own kindness.
Thank you for reading this, I’ll see you in a month.



I thought love at 11 was remembering the Ralph Lauren Shirt he wore the first day I met him. Whilst he was sincerely shocked at how I remembered such a small detail about him.

I thought love at 13 was showing features I didn’t have, and wearing too much make up, too young
Even though he was never really looking, just browsing.

I thought love at 15 was serious because I was in High School,
and because I started writing.

I thought love at 17 with the same love from 11 was going to last,
because I would’ve done anything for him, and never for myself.

But love at 18 was different,
because I took the time to love myself.

Now at 19, when someone’s asking me if I’ve ever felt love.
I shake my head politely, because with every new being.
With every age, I experienced a different kind of love.
A different kind, at 19.

Because at 19,

It became a 30 minute anxiety attack, on the bathroom floor of a house party, and not being afraid to tell him that your body shuts down sometimes, and that you feel like you’re going crazy.
So he replies with, “Then that makes you the most sane of them all”
and without hesitating, you say it.
“Drink Responsiblelely”

It’s sitting a table with your friends defending him of the things he’s done onto you before, swearing that it will never happen again, because you see him in a different light now, and they listen to you give them an annotated bibliography of his accomplishments, and the biggest one of them all being him stealing your heart.
“I hope to God he doesn’t prove people right”

It’s finally being able to let someone look you directly in the eyes without turning away in fear of your complexion. It’s studying his facial structure, and coming to the realization that what was once flaws in your eyes, became what you admired the most.

I could keep on going,
but as I’m writing this, It’s considered dwelling
It may not be your perception of it.
It also faded faster than my only tattoo.

At 19.

19 remembering his middle name, and his favourite movie quotes because those were key details.

19 wearing turtlenecks and mom jeans every time you saw him because for a year
It wasn’t about that
but it became about that,
and we got caught up in that,
and in this day and age it just gets like that

19 and writing, writing and getting vulnerable with it and putting it out there because he stopped listening and you’re not done speaking. Kind of the way he did. 

19 and knowing that it wasn’t going to last so you kept him waiting, because it takes time for you to open up and he wasn’t one to wait, but he sat their patiently, and once you sat down. He got up.

19 and him telling you that you’ve got the darkest soul he’s ever seen, when you were trying to find batteries for his flashlight.

19 and still being present because you realize that he’s becoming more of who he actually is, but still searching for the good, always searching for the good in him.

19 and selflessly praising his newfound happiness, hoping that it’s genuine because it’s better than his fears and self-loathing

19 and not treating him the way he treats you, but instead trying to understand his actions because that’s a sign of maturity and your mother taught you so

19 and a stranger telling you that you give him so much, something that’s rarely ever given to him, and that’s why he doesn’t know what to do with it. “You’ve become a relit cigarette, they don’t taste the same”

So you reply with someday, someone will give him the right kind of love, and I hope her fingers tremble at the notion of writing about him, and her throat burns after fighting with him on the phone, and that she reminds him and reassures him constantly that he is not alone, and is far from disappointing.

But in the event that someone ever hurts him, and he thinks of me at 19 just know that I still see his face in crowded places and tapped every man on the shoulder
Watched them turn around and realize it’s not who I thought it was
That’s when I realized that the man I fell in love with is also a stranger.

Did you see her blog post? Yeah she said “love” fml…lol – Daniella Beca


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