Everything ever felt must be felt strongly

by the heart, for it does not beat lightly

but with the kindred spirit that echoes its capacity

for love...and hatred.

Now, my emotions are like the ocean,

whose waves cannot be tamed—only shouldered.

And my heart beats like the sound of a bird’s wings

but my wing’s have been clipped since I was a baby.

From infancy I’ve been taught what to feel.

My first steps were to walk a path previously paved.

(Secretly I wish to fly.)

I’ve been fed directions and commands.

(Secretly, I’d rather starve.)

((But, that’s a lie for the truth lies

in the taste of words on the tip of my tongue—))

—I sit in silence.

I allow others to dictate me

But truthfully…

I hate their melody.

Compliant I am not within the confines of my mind.

Neither am I a thoughtless carcass

Waiting to be pulled by strings like a marionette doll.

(But I do act on stage.)

I have learned to feed others the lines they wish

the audience only ever comes back when they get what they want.

(I’ve always had affection for words,

an affinity for the harmony of rhetoric.)

I assume the irony of a puppet.

I speak the words of someone else

rather than my own.

I have been acting my part for so many years…

It’s difficult to draw the line of my naturalité

(I don’t quite believe it’s a line…

blurred blotches where I start to forget...)

—What I do know:

The cold winter air tempts me to break free.

I wish to taste the night sky and drink the stars.

Dead paper, stillborn pencils, and bleeding pens

are my friends.

Reading is my oldest friend who has never left.

My voice sounds fragile and is easily lost in the murmur of others.

I dislike crowds and too many people…

But…

I fear for empty theater seats.