the poet

should i, in my diverse humanity,
be mindful of being revered
or should i find my endearment
in soulful exploits?
should the malleability of my people
persuade me to cry out for scorn and taunt
cry out for spite and brunt?

i yield not to the quest for blood
nor to the oppression of the mortal mind
but only to the boldness of the troubled spirit
i, so articulate, dwell not in the tombs
of darkness and despair
nor in the realms of my imagination

the master of my own destiny
the author of my fate
i am not oblivious to past injustices
nor to the levels of contempt
bestowed on us by littleness and pettiness
i simply find my solace in the reminiscence,
the marriage of matter and of mind