White Male
My notebook is blank
but my pen has already ran out of ink.
What would my story be if it could be told?
Still, I do have a few paper cuts
But I can hide them with band aids
that match my skin tone.
I try to speak to the manager
But people’s cries drown me out.
Their own notebooks are dripping with ink.
Pages slashed across and crumpled.
Their cuts are much deeper
But they can’t find matching band aids.
I withdraw my complaint in a hurry.
Nothing to report!
My notebook is blank
but my pen has already ran out of ink.
What would my story be if it could be told?
I’d rather not know.
When it thunders, it thunders
I freed myself from the father.
I fixed my own breakfast today!
I look around.
There is just me.
The first morsels are raw.
No artificial sweeteners!
My hands, legs and head are still riddled with hooks
That used to hold the strings.
Who knew I could move without them!
I thank beauty for the beauty.
I thank warmth for the warmth.
I thank light for the light.
It thunders but I’m not any more honest,
Nor have I ever been a thief!
There is still fear but now I let it sit beside me.
We finish breakfast together.
The dark.
Such a bad reputation it’s been given
by those who claim to shine the light.
Don’t they know their candle illuminates things
for just a moment and only from one side at the time?
But it is in darkness that the roots find their way
of nourishing the superficial part of a plant.
Hollow crypts hide the secrets of passing.
Violin interiors release the clearest sounds.
The infinite and uninterrupted dark!
A star that could devour thousand Earths
Is nothing but a tiny speck in a night sky.
Day’s illusion: a brief interruption.
The blind are strangers to light
So they won’t believe you when you tell them
That the dark could be bad.
They are the ones who can see!