Except That It Is True Poem by Julia Luber

It is very hard to believe, except that it is true.
The sledgehammer on the soul; the truth is stronger than you.
No-win situation; the truth is a complete psychological castration.
It is not about you; you are only its hand-maiden.
And upon all that you engage, it makes you wish you would have stayed in.
I did not want to see that. I did not want to know that. I do not want to think about that.
Who is it that needs me constantly and chronically spade by the truth: a visual, and visceral
one, that leaves no space for breath. And so somebody wants to put me in a muzzle-
make me have nothing to say: as if they feel no greater ego than to make me dumbfounded.
As if my voice had never sounded.
As if I never existed.
As if my soul was listed as a slave by whose demand?
To act as the subjugated humiliated to an arrogant condescending voice
smugly gruffing, "Understand? "
And the tone is so unctuous, the sentiment so void of
fabulous rambunctious life.
All suffocated in the imposer of a cretin's claustrophobic strife.