I'm sick of my own voice
blaring in my ears,
screaming, distorted, through the T.V.
Female middle class white noise.

Everyone knows how it goes—
Dr. Dad, private schools,
Sylvia Plath and Bronte,
repressed and depressed.

If I'm bored by this, who isn't?
I can't hear the voices of dark people,
not while I'm still talking,
and I can't write their stories, can I?

This is the moral of every white person's story,
and every rich person's story,
and every man's story:
poor me, poor me me me.