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!
Stumbling along the sidewalk 