Though I beg you to
reconsider,
You have every right to
speak my pain
on a stage in the name of
art
The kind of burrowed pain
Only an introvert could
leave
undeclared, unspoken and
undevoted
to the crowd; not as you
are its slave,
its grand acting chained
breathless entertaining slave
“be a simple kind of man”
You have nothing to
yourself
I am branded, and burned
and singed
To elevate and aggravate my
worst fears
on the numbed faces of
dispersed strangers
who will never know the feeling
of my fingers on their brow
under a low lit
ceiling of Sundays
And Mondays
And Tuesdays
And all days
Of our eleven years
I beg you to reconsider.
