Is there room for one more?

My inspiration for this poem is spoken word poet Shane Koyczan.  I think he is wonderful and his poetry certainly helped me get through a rough patch in my life, so much so that I consider him my hero.  It’s strange isn’t it that I would consider myself saved by a man I’ve never met.  Strange I would listen to words thousands of other people have listened to and somehow believe they were written for me.  I am, of course, tangentially aware there are thousands of others who feel this way, I’d just prefer to stay blissfully in denial.  Instead I am left with a stubborn image of my hero clad in a jumpsuit with a big P on the chest (P for Poet) and a see-through cape standing on stage baring his soul in order to save me.  It seems to me that this man has a superpower.  His superpower – soliloquy.  

On stage soliloquies and monologues have one thing in common: they each involve a solitary speaker. The difference between the two doesn't have to do with who's talking but with who's listening.  Nothing else has changed.  The scene remains the same, the audience members remain the same, the actor remains the same but the significance of the words has changed.  The speech is now internalized.  The actor is thinking to himself, as it were and allowing you to see into his inner thoughts so the audience reaches a deeper understanding.

I think something akin to this happens to me (and perhaps to you) when I listen to words thousands have heard and I understand them in my own way.  Mr. Koyzcan’s poems are not soliloquies but always, always, always at some point the monologue changes and I am invited inside.

 

I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that this poem is about me too, but in my case it’s more about desire.  I desire to have the courage to reveal myself to other people more fully.  I desire to write words that have a deeper meaning to people.  I fervently hope that something that I say might help someone step back from whatever ledge they might find themselves on.   But before I take myself too seriously I am reminded of another soliloquy;

She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word. —
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

— Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)