Independence Day

Sitting in front of this
double-paned window
watching the traffic go by
on such a dreary Saturday
I realize that everything
you've ever said about
My age
my naivete
and my insatiable need for optimism
tainting my poetry,
my art,
is pure bullshit.

I don't write long, rambling poems
detailing the death of
my comrades in some
bloody foreign war
(I'm a pacifist--I don't believe in War.
Oh, I believe it exists, but I don't support
the government's over-rehearsed
examination of its "necessity").
I don't write about the tribulations
of my Inner Child
(I have an Inner Child,
but she prefers to suffer in silence).

And I don't write about the
ultimate love of my life
(My apologies to Mrs. Browning)
or the political
inadequacies of our time
(it's been done).

I do write about apathy,
the human spirit,
and yes, occasionally, love.
I do write about love
(give me a break, everyone does).
So spare me your inherent superiority.
I only ask to be given the opportunity
to speak my mind
(something I do very well, I'm told).
Take it or leave it.

.

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