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?
