Why do I fill little black books

With scrawling script

 

Because even as I try to type

On uneven dirty black keys

I am interrupted by the reality

That I am the working-class drone

I hoped never to become.

“Good morning, this is Alex with [COMPANY NAME]

I give you my time and my freedom

How may I help you?”

I minimize the window to my dreams

Maximize programs for customer satisfaction

SaveAs to update and edit

Know my freedom will come when the time is right

When the money is right

When the light is right

 

Why do I scribble in company-given note pads

Caricatures of people who never existed

 

Because when the world was dark

And the light was long gone

I found solace in the stroke of a pencil

On smooth blank sheets

Creating realities where I was happy

Where I could find love and acceptance

Time spent sleeping and sobbing and slicing into skin

Now spent creating

Children

Products of the imagination

Who would live on through words and pictures

While inside I felt my life

Had been stolen away

 

Why do I scream through the written word

Instead of making use of my God-given chords

 

Because I am not allowed

To use anything but words I am given

I cannot say I am pretty

Unless I am first told

I cannot voice my pride

Until someone voices theirs for me

I cannot spout my anger

Until those who wronged me are long gone

And I am alone again

With no one to hurt with my words

Because when you were gone

I reverted to infancy

Only saying No

No

No

No

No

No

Beyond my comprehension

My vocabulary

When she left it happened again

No

No

No

No

No

Only years later would I find the words

Never spoken aloud

Scribbled down

In little black books

In company-given notepads

Through the written word

 

Why do I do

The things I do

The way I do them

 

To be heard