Xylograph:
My Story
Must be Free
Janet Kuypers
2/5/19
No one ever thinks of how I feel.
Artists. Philosophers. Novelists.
They all think nothing of me, and
use me until they destroy me.
They pay no notice of me, unless
I can serve their selfish purposes.
They give me no regard, and then
they take a razor to me, peeling
me away until they can use me
to their own ends. After smearing
me all over their pages, they even
rub away parts of what I have left
until what they have splattered
is to their liking. They’re taking
my blood, what is deep inside me,
smearing it around into something
altogether unholy. And all this time
I want to share my story with
the world, but I cannot sculpt
what is inside of me in a way
the rest of the world would ever
understand. Like moulding clay,
my graphite soul would relay
a lifetime of torture from those
who only understood abusing me
to only meet their own petty needs.
Save me from this fate: etch
my words into engravings,
letter by letter, to print them
for the world to see, so they may
finally understand what for
millennia they have done to me.
(this poem is about a pencil.)
|