Against the World

And I get up. With the words of my soul transpiring in front of me, hoping to achieve greatness. To consider oneself the greatest of minds is to consider oneself the least of mankind. To trample Socrates is to rape oneself of the crime and punishment we once deserved. But to end in ashes and dust is to die in vain. To live on with the torment is to fight for the paradigms which represent the creation of this world.

I remember the time when I first heard a vulgar word, or so it seemed. Idiot. One minuscule moment causes me to gasp, clutch my heart, and stare deeply into the eyes of what I deemed a sinner, a bombardment and infiltrator to the egg shaped dome of my infinitely naïve mind. The moment is gone now. Vanishes to vapors of carbon dioxide that exited the moment the sinner uttered in a garbled manner the ruthless words of the demons which plagued his six year old mind. It wasn’t, isn’t, about the words; the situation was about my lack of approval of the child that said them to my face. Mind you, I was only six myself, but to a sheltered child of the tinny six, the battle of approval versus disapproval was deeply implanted in my mind. “Idiot” was non-inclusive to become fully acceptable. I was defeated by this word… and then some because I felt something deep within shatter and shake.

Ever feel a stutter in your heart, a hitch in your breath? It’s the soft pattering behind you, the close call with a whisper of a ghost’s breath. Silently behind you, waiting for the moment you slip, stammer, or hesitate. It’s waiting for the moment you get behind the chariot reigns and wheel yourself at your opponent, only realizing, your opponent is you. A mirror of yourself. Are you fighting what is inside? Are you fighting what man has made you to be? What are you? Who are you? The patter becomes a thump, irregular and bleating behind you. Cackles rise, or are they shackles? Holding you firm in their grips. Yet you are back in the chariot facing yourself, a war cry escapes past the grimace you wear. The grimace is not for the opponent to fear but for you to put a brave face on to veil your confusion and helplessness. The whisper of a wind throws you off kilter. You rise and find yourself. Well, I am Sire, the sudden warrior, risen from pain, baptised in hope, restored to fame.

This poem is about: 
Me

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