I've been here, there, everywhere
and still I feel like
an ice cube left out
under the sun.
Furious at nothing
yet angry at everything,
I've collected mental
images that
fester like lice
and
never go away.
Sat in crowds
and listened
carefully to
descriptive words
describing my
short-comings.
Dropped hand in
water to piss
away chance
of redemptive
acceptance.
Why don't we ever
challenge our
oppressors?
Why do we let
random voices
pick and choose
what we are
to feel?
I'm not wrong.
I may not agree
with every verb
uttered in my
direction, but
this does not mean
I am
incapable of thinking
correctly.
I've thought of
shapes and forgiveness.
Maybe these would
help in
the battle to
be self?
Or perhaps,
the clanging bells
of accusations
will never cease?
This leaves me at
only one
option; to ignore,
and to do so
eloquently.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem