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Description
A fifteen-year old girl shoves her fat
and puny finger 'neath your nose and tells
you to change yourself, from a hostage
to a captor. How would you feel? It's all
in the skin and tattered bones of every
self-respecting Poet to give themselves
up as children of the written word.

We've filled forests and continents
of pages with our blood-drop words,
painstakingly, painted and crafted
to weave a forest of Autumn poetry,
every leaf lovingly, grievingly drafted
from green to gold to brown and red:

that little Poet-girl's eyes when she
shoves her small twig of life experiences
up your bloodshot face, bloodied with wrath
at her raving request to morph and change --
How, would you feel? She says you're confined
behind yellow lines like your darn skin color
and dare not run and yell berserk with
the whispering winds: "I'm a freaking Poet!"

God, is the Creator in her naive eyes,
but just another human to her fat ego.
She doesn't worship nor respect him
but deems her Gods are fellow Poets
and raving rebels. She revels in

painting uncreative people as idiots
and cultured-confined people
as lifeless robots. Well, I'm a Poet-
who-stands-within-the-yellow-lines,
not cos I don't dare rebel but I
don't see the point in reveling
about raving rebels. What do you think?