I have a right to write right now;
its an innate need, an instinctiual task
for all hours of night, every night
for spreading wisdom behind a mask
of smudged ink and tears, right now-
I exercise my inner being, my soul
sharing the deepest parts of me
for stranger's scrutiny. For we
fight to keep our right to write-
right now. Every hour, every night.
On this very ground
underneath the snow and ice
the dirt and grass
the layers of clay
the stark developments
and gaudy displays
lay evidence of my ancestors-
pottery, beads, and pipes.
There were hundreds, no thousands,
Just Like Me.
On this very ground
showing fealty to our Mother-
Earth-
and feeling clarity-
the uncertainty of an un-promised future.
I am not Hansel, nor Gretel,
following your candy trail-
sugary sweet empty promises
without doubt, without fail.
A am a mannequin, nor doll,
opening my legs, raising arms
for anything that can touch
for anyone with certain charms.
I am me,
no more,
no less.
You, with the kind facade,
stop stringing me along.
Behind your eyes
Black,
gold,
lust
No mistaking the lust
that consumes you whole
And brazens your words
No need for touch
I am bloodied enough
By your nonviolent fists,
Your cast iron wit
Behind my eyes
black,
gold,
empty.
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