Writing Myself Back Alive

A poem as an act of revolt

I look to the cracks of a crescent moon 

for reassurance, for an unadulterated 

comfort that will break the plate of 

guilt that has formed itself around my 

soul. I can fix the gaudy chips with a 

stern ire and rocket-fuelled fire that 

propels me into the molten core of 

truth. I will not waver for droogs 

or the ruth…less. I will stand strong 

in the face of those who do me wrong.

Writing myself back alive is my kind 

of revenge—a dish best served wordy. 

I am a firecracker. I am a hurricane 

with an all-seeing eye cloaked in a

bog of smoke. Feel my wrath like an 

ulcer taking refuge in your throat. 

You will not shoot me down. You

will not give me a crown and expect 

me not to wear it. I will write myself back 

alive, and your knife will take a nosedive.

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