I Am.... (The Woodcutter) Poem by Eric Cockrell

i am...
the woodcutter,
cutting and stacking wood,
for the fire i'll never know.
i am the taste
of rain drenched leaves,
and the silence just after.
i am the soot
on the miners face,
his only mark of identity.
i am the black man,
who knowing his journey well,
having pride in his roots,
steps beyond bitterness.
i am the woman,
forced to sleep in the closet,
hands worn by the broom...
who finally steps free.
i am the poor man,
with tired calloused hands,
his jaw firmly set,
he's had all he's going to take.
i am the child,
who never knew his father,
whose mother worked two shifts,
so he could go to school.
i am the outcast,
condemned by the church,
shunned by his neighbors,
because he is different.
i am the echo,
of your guilt and your need,
the shout of your actions.
the cry of hunger in your sleep!