A stereotype is something that you fall into,
Like a maintenance hole.
O
Words are things that you write in between the lies,
Verbal clues to cues, only of yourself.
O
Beneath them lies a pitfall, a trap of nothingness;
You’ll have to be as still as a painting.
O
A stereotype isn’t reading into your brain and writing on the pages,
it’s saying you read a book by glancing at its cover.
O
Words can have the impact of a genocidal stockade in an ashy winter,
and they can hit you with an unspeakable ancestry of thought.
O
Beneath the bodies, there was an idea, and it firmly stands for hatred;
Only by measuring its depth may we use its influence for good.
O
Writers eat, sleep, drink, smoke, live, love, learn, halt, stand in place, march, undress, redress address, confess, caress, share, care, write about bears without hair, find happiness when it’s there, watch people climb trees with dirt in their nails, buy two hot dogs for their imaginary friends, sit when others are standing, laugh when no one else is, run away when they’re scared, shave bears who are already bare, laugh about it, scream about it, can’t eat without it, gnaw on coffee cups, bum cigarettes, smell their exhaustion, dream of their redemption, remember thoughts, forget thoughts, take others’ thoughts, steal and then lie about it, set up a story and then tell the truth, fall, write about fall, lay down in the shade, close their eyes, dream of more. But most of all, they speak out against injustice, bring light to where there was none, show the world that there are none who can stand before us and take our invaluable right to speak from our hearts, to open doors to new possibilities that only we can see, to be worth something. We are an oath to those that matter and those that need a voice or a pen.