the poet

should i, in my diverse humanity, be mindful of being revered or should i find my endearment in soulful exploits? should the malleability of my people persuade me to cry out for scorn and taunt cry out for spite and brunt? i yield not to the quest for blood nor to the oppression of the mortal mind but only to the boldness of the troubled spirit i, so articulate, dwell not in the tombs of darkness and despair nor in the realms of my imagination the master of my own destiny the author of my fate i am not oblivious to past injustices nor to the levels of desert bestowed on us by littleness and pettiness i simply find my solace in the reminiscence, the marriage of matter and of mind