You know that dream...
The one where you are
standing in front
of everyone, and as you
glance down then up,
you burn beetroot red.
Realising you are as naked
as the day you were born.
Then the laughter begins,
a wall of hyenas, cackling,
and you can feel your skin cracking,
and the tears starting to stream...
Well, that was childhood.
Every day brought that
feeling to the page. Every time
I spoke, every time I raised my hand,
every time I walked, or stood still,
every possible moment, good or bad,
tainted with that paint,
washed in that pain.
And my crime?
This is the question.
Was I a 2B pencil
in a world of pens?
All I know is that the erasers
were out in force, and my face
was drawn in scribbled lines.
Were the toothy grins
payback for some unconfirmed sin,
like the sin of being slightly different?
And by different, all I
really mean is unpopular.
They wouldn't have seen
the internal wiring going haywire,
or the fire in my head
when trying to connect simple threads.
But then, children are mean.
And I was public enemy number one.
To be or not to be,
a rose by another name,
a poet not a fighter,
a lover and a writer.
So, I layered on
the war paint, heavy cement,
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