The poetry place is full of words

I wrote this poem because i went to a poetry night and it got me thinking and this is what came out of my head. I hope you all enjoy it.please feel free to give me feed back.

The poetry place is full of words

A building that is in covent garden, it’s on a small road that is not lit by much light. People must walk past this building every day in the busy streets of London, and not give it another glance. To most people it must look like a simple building with a glass window and a door just pretending to be a simple café and nothing more. 

If you were to step inside a warm friendly feeling you will feel as the atmosphere greets you. A blond woman stands at the counter ready to serve you drinks. She is by herself in her small café that holds a secret. 

There are wooden steps that lead down into a small room. The first thing I saw when I entered this room was the mic stand, it stands in the middle of the room. The mic-stand, a gateway to the wonders of the night, the mic stands in the centre of the room, be it small or be it tall the mic stands. We stand at the mic stand, the people stand for the person standing at the mic stand. The clapping began as the first person approached the...mic stand.

This room is a place of emotions such strong devotions’ to all the notions been spoken across the oceans. The stories unfold before the mic.  The statements are jettisoned across the room changing the mood of the room it could be doom and gloom, but just like a flick of a switch as next person speaks we are bewitched. The room has shifted ones more laughter echoes across the room as more words are spoken. 

The words the words traveling words just like birds. They fly, they fly, oh so high. Ascending up into our earholes, where they travel to our brains to make their nests, but they must get lost along the way as the touch are chests, but isn’t that the best. The words dive deep into us imprinting, engraving, and marking themselves as a part of us. New words are born every day. even if they not the prettiest birds such as selfie (oh help me,) but nevertheless they are still words. 

We are walking talking stories filled with hundreds and thousands of blank pages and each and every word or strings of words falls onto a page, filling another page of the story. Now in the room I hear stories small pages of your lives. They really do cut like knives or make me laugh a time and a half. All types of stories have been told on this mic stand so please give me a big hand as I tell you my story I will try not to bore thee.