Free Speech-The Spoken Word

The voice released, a torrent and a stream, A flood of questions, or a fevered dream. It pulls down curtains that have long been drawn, And brings the silent, hidden things to dawn. The poet's verse, the protest in the square, A tool to fight the tyrant and the snare. It gives the powerless a chance to rise, To lift the hood from blind and fearful eyes. It builds a bridge where once the canyon yawned, And seeds the ground for futures yet unthawed. But from the same deep well, the poison flows, The quiet cruelty that festers and grows. The whispered lie, the slander in the breeze, The ugly word that brings a soul to its knees. A reckless shout, a fire in the hall, That makes the bravest spirit stumble and fall. The bridge of reason burned by hurried hate, A storm unleashed, with no retreat, too late. It gives the hateful, license to incite, And drowns the truth within a raging night. So, stand we here, upon this shifting ground, Where both the balm and bitter sting are found. The gi...
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Misfits

From roots of shared soil, I am the strange vine,

A different bloom, a skewed and strange design.

They speak the family language, steeped in lore,

But my tongue trips on phrases they adore.


My laughter is a chord that strikes a little flat,

A shadow in the sun where all the others sat.

I trace the branches of the common tree,

And see the fruit they bear, so unlike me.


The patterns of their lives, a woven tapestry,

But I'm a single, unpicked thread, wild and free.

My gifts, to them, are strange and out of place,

A lonely star in their familiar space.


I listen to their murmurs, soft and deep,

A language of unspoken promises they keep.

And though I love the echoes of their sound,

I hear a melody that I, alone, have found.


It calls to me from pastures far away,

To walk a wilder path, a brighter, different day.

They cannot know the landscape of my mind,

The secret doors and pathways I designed.


They see a shadow where they want a form,

A quiet, lonely harbor in their storm.

But in my solitude, a strength has grown,

The proud and simple courage of my own.


So let me be the misfit, standing tall,

The black sheep that refuses to fall.

For in this difference, a new grace takes its hold,

A richer story waiting to be told.

I'll build my own home, a place to call my own,

And on that fertile ground, I will be known.

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