The Voice

There is a voice that echoes without measure It bounces off the faces of those who came before it It dances in the acres of nostalgia This voice carries a fire That burns Burns With the thrills of a thousand souls It possesses the pain and agony of those whose cries fell on deaf ears The ones that were overlooked The children of a lesser being A lesser God Its roots dig deep down into the soil of every community and society It sips from the reservoirs Filled with the tears of those dying to be heard Dying to be noticed Dying to be accepted To be loved To be wanted To be needed The voice speaks of the names of those whispered into the ears of others The voice articulates It brings about a change It defines a people The voice is me So as much as I would love to slam this poem I would rather SLAM the labels The hate The fear of loving Living every day in combat Only to die in vain I am the voice of the little girl who searches for herself daily and finds nothing but footprints of regret I am the voice The voice of the young boy, who because of his sexual orientation is tortured and scorned by many tongues I am the voice of the shadows that follow me They rest on my back like the thoughts of a nation And scratch at my neck like a cat to a tree They paint pictures that only I can see I am the voice of a lesser people

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