(no subject)
I haven't written since last semester. I don't know if I like it but maybe I'll edit it later.
We write, perform, paint, sing out
And raise our black nail-polished fists in rage.
We gather in cleverly named coffee houses ,
Trading stories and words of advice.
But who will be there,
When I’m walking home alone,
Clinging to the orange streetlight for comfort.
Can iambic pentameter protect me,
From every fallen branch or stray twig snapping up
Like my head at the slightest sound?
Can I mime a box around myself and throw away the key
To shield me from every shadow or rustling bush?
Or maybe I could dance in time,
To the sound of my ragtime piano breathing,
The uneven tempo increasing with every turn of a corner?
We sit in cross-legged circles,
Talking, crying, passing aloe-enriched tissues, squeezing shaky hands,
discussing the things that have already happened.
But we never talk about the looming fear,
That it could happen to those of us who remain untouched.
We don’t talk about
How we can’t help but instinctively stare down,
Every single man we pass on the darkened street
Because we want to make sure they know,
That we didn’t drink coffee and write poetry for nothing.
But what these innocent men don’t know,
Is that we are not glaring at them with wide-eyed fire
Because of who they are or what they look like.
We are raising our fists at what they could be,
And inviting them to prove us wrong.
We write, perform, paint, sing out
And raise our black nail-polished fists in rage.
We gather in cleverly named coffee houses ,
Trading stories and words of advice.
But who will be there,
When I’m walking home alone,
Clinging to the orange streetlight for comfort.
Can iambic pentameter protect me,
From every fallen branch or stray twig snapping up
Like my head at the slightest sound?
Can I mime a box around myself and throw away the key
To shield me from every shadow or rustling bush?
Or maybe I could dance in time,
To the sound of my ragtime piano breathing,
The uneven tempo increasing with every turn of a corner?
We sit in cross-legged circles,
Talking, crying, passing aloe-enriched tissues, squeezing shaky hands,
discussing the things that have already happened.
But we never talk about the looming fear,
That it could happen to those of us who remain untouched.
We don’t talk about
How we can’t help but instinctively stare down,
Every single man we pass on the darkened street
Because we want to make sure they know,
That we didn’t drink coffee and write poetry for nothing.
But what these innocent men don’t know,
Is that we are not glaring at them with wide-eyed fire
Because of who they are or what they look like.
We are raising our fists at what they could be,
And inviting them to prove us wrong.