Me
I should like to be…
A paint brush.
Forcing globs of color into underlying shapes and patterns,
Subduing them into each other,
Diluted into believing;
Melting into society’s mold.
Not what I strive to see.
Can I not stroke the page with an ornate spring or meadow?
Rather than the decadent, concentrated murky blacks that,
I am told I should be…
I should like to be…
A piece of charcoal.
Jagged rock, stripped from its underground sanctuary-
Waiting to be blackened on to the page.
Awaiting the inevitable dark, dark as the nights
Yet,
Unrelenting with their stars.
Scratching against rough, pulpy paper;
We find right.
Twisting and changing
From darkness to light;
Not so much malevolence,
But meant to be quite, brilliant
As it forms a coherent thought,
You can feel all that is lost.
But,
I don’t feel quite right.
As right as
I am told I should be…
I should like to be…
A block of clay.
Massaged in their specific shape,
Masked by deft hands
Leaving me to sort out my own
I am left to His mercy,
Blocked from the sun
As much as a man is kept incarcerated during times of war.
Cannot quite place how these hands;
These hands are not guilt-ridden,
Not hurting as
I am told I should be…
I should like to be…
A blank pad.
With the innocence of a fresh coat of snow,
I am eager for my master to attack.
Pushing forced thoughts into my subconscious,
Going along without question,
Waiting for something real.
I should not question,
As something blank should not,
For now I am obedient as
I am told I should be…
I should like to be…
The wind.
A whirling mist,
Carrying along desperate messages,
They push into my head.
