When I write I

Recreate the stars

Giving them a rhythm

Absent in the real world

Life doesn’t flow but story flows.

 

Still, the starts they are

And here in this tiny world,

Though I create it,

I am not God but bard,

For stars would obey God

Instead of

Demanding better music.

To the outside,

Writing is awkward. Attempting to build

A house, a home, a cottage

Out of marshmallows and toothpicks.

Language is clumsy, fragile

One wrong letter shattering

The entire structure

 

Harder still when something

MATTERS

These stars and hand I was dealt

Are similar to others

Who have been cast out

Thrown to the wolves, to be

Devoured by hate and pain and

Loneliness.

 

I have toothpicks and marshmallows

Shallow platitudes and reassurances.

Yet my toothpick house

Draws people to admire

Such a foolish work.

Look closer I say

See these wolves

And my people left

To be devoured?

They look. How courageous, they say

About my toothpick house.

What a marvel, a wonder a show.

Steam flows out of my ears.

Running from the wolves

Is not a show, is not courage.

I am not superior to those who died

For lacking my head start of skin color

And not being able to run faster.

 

Building a toothpick hut of

Letters and hope and

Tears

Might be foolish, stupid courage

But I am not a soldier

I know not how to fight

So this is how I do battle, because

What I know is toothpicks

And marshmallows

And persistence beyond what is healthy.

I will build a spectacle

To draw in those that know not what they do

Attempting to get them to change.

 

So you have your people

Left out in the cold.

Foolish courage borne of desperation.

Find your toothpicks and marshmallows

What story would you tell?