I don’t understand
why those who want me to
wear their words
will stand
and talk loud
over my thoughts
that I bled onto
my paper.
Don’t i matter?
Maybe I’m old.
Maybe I was born
In a time
When my daddy
And mamma taught we kids,
Once young, too,
Like you,
To be polite,
To show respect
To others,
To listen
When it’s your turn to hear.
Just as I
Turned my gaze
To you
And listened to your lips
As they caress
The open mic.
I will listen
And did listen
To you
When it was your turn,
To speak your truths.
And now that
Its my voice
That should be heard,
You can hear.
Or u may leave
And converse outside.
Or,
If you’re here,
So others may hear,
U may kindly,
Politely,
Quietly
Shut the f*** up.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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