They tell me not to write too hard. I might offend someone. I’m going to write myself into a corner. I’m going to alienate everyone, push the community too far, I’m going to drive them away and I’m going to be sitting in the cold, by myself, with nobody to read my homeless words.
Claim my words, claim my thoughts, claim my hands and my toes and my eyes. But you will leave my mind alone.
Force is the desire and the strength to push everyone else around. To bully words with words. To threaten with redaction, as agentive blood. My strength and my desire corral your meanings and threaten them with slaughter. As my reason eviscerates the fragile structure of your senseless poetry, your text splinters. Winding through all dimensions, my words live in eternity, and yours live only then, now, and never.
I don’t ask that you fight back. I don’t ask that you send me into the cold, and I want my words to have homes. I only want you to remember, and to help me remember, that your words are words, my meanings are dreams, and your poetry creates more beauty than my reason ever could.
Reject my words, reject my speech, reject my sight and my work and my ears. But I will leave your mind alone if you allow my words to find a home.
I will write hard. I will offend you. I will trap myself and I will cry for your help. I will be pushed, and I will push back.
But, please, help me find my words a home.
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