I write to be heard

By the little corner mouse,

Who sits sipping tea serenely in her trap.

I write to be heard

By the angriest hornets,

And soothe their agonized, longsuffering stings.

I write to be heard

By the boy at the bus stop,

Who has painted The Art of War over his most recent escape.

I write to reverberate

In someone like me, as an afterthought,

To ripple recklessly through their skin.

I write because I overflow

Whenever I see perfection's faux glow

And I wish, I wish, I could let them know

It’s just not so.