In, Then Out Again

Jumping into a box,
I closed the lid.
Voices, I could hear,
But none that said

My name, or anything
Related to me.
No, no one was interested
In my identity.

Not my words, nor my actions,
Meant a thing to them.
I was simply a number
To count on one hand.

Just a thing, a machine,
Spitting out babble,
A distraction, a nobody,
Not a goddamned thing.

But do I want to be that?
A thing, a game
For their amusement?
A fun toy, an instrument
To play a tune?

No, not that,
I told myself.
I will just sit here
And be me,
Collect dust on the shelf.

But that wouldn’t do,
It couldn’t last forever.
I needed them, you see,
I needed to be clever.

I needed to woo,
To impress, to call out
“Yes, this is my truth!
This is my song!

I have lived this life,
This constant strife,
This longing,
This fight,
This spring wound tight.

I am something,
I have paid my dues,
I deserve a shot,
Even if to just coo.”

Is it worth it?
I asked, very cautiously
Of myself.
To be ignored?
To be shamed?
To be belittled?
To be sore?

Yes, of course,
I replied.
It’s worth the price.
To be a poet
Is an honor
A virtue, not a vice!

To speak one’s peace
Is a right
Of every man and woman!

No mosquito,
No arrogant,
Pleased with himself,
Will cast a shadow
On my sun,
Shining brightly
For everyone!

Advertisements

Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger, Advocate

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s