humility

sitting by a table
drawing her own surroundings
being larger than the seat that can barley hold
her slim crossed legs
so stuffed and self pleased
oh here I be
echoing the words with prosthetic
pseudo sorrow
she thinks
what a miniature revolution I am
what liberation lies
within the twist of my pen
and then
and then at the crucial moment she sips her coffe cup
and writes about it
what muse
I am one
and hardly there is anyone like me.

madam:
you
dark haired
dark eyed
dark souled
dark coffeed madam

the coffee and the pen and the books
did not
do not
exist solely for you
and for your self pleased
self southed idea of being significant
any of us
all of us billions since the dawn of time
who have ever held a pen
got on a stage
tried to make syrup song like poetry
for the rough edges of dry working hands
only dream to be vessels
for what enormous beauty the earth already had
please
young madam
stop calling your self a writer
for the increasing fume that comes out of the words you like to burn
 and scatter their ashes
for an audience
you are not a writer
if you
and for the bright and burning
florescent
purge colored
spot light
write and scribble
all over the pain
and small
actual sorrow of a nation at large.
you write to be bigger.
being smaller all the while.