If You Ask

If you ask the brass band in all their grandeur,
I am not who I am supposed to be, but a taunting reminder that plans are broken and embarrassment reins over rejection of implanted silence.

If you question the scholars calculations and knowledge you may form an unpopular opinion,
lest you become the question with answer scientists struggle to understand.

I am not comprehended in the unplugged microphone,
my words mere whispers gasping for air to travel upon.

In youth I was said to be best and brightest,
branded for riches and glory, materialistic things that smiled the greedy minds ajar,
baring teeth to sink into me, lest I be living someone else's idea of me.

Rebelious by nature,
angered by the selfishness in blood and the relentless nature of beggars,
I find the shadows speak my breath to my chest, lest I reside resigting my ales to an audience of demons displaying the brass band with their stringed instruments. Healing to my bleeding thirst for myself.

The disappointed glances didn't hide well,
they surfaced as quickly as the greed, but they touched me less...
Lest I hurt more, always giving the undeserved attentions to those beggars who be only taking and shunning me, their backs turned to bind me to the cold.

If you ask the king set atop his thorns and throne if I measure up,
if I can bare the battle wounds inflicted by the enemy he say I am nothing that he ever wanted,
something best left forgotten in the closets of lost hopes among the dead lost in battles not their own, he say I am not his and this ring true, I bare not his substance in its accusing thumbs, nor the ability to stab my own blood in the back without remorse. I am not bound to a moronic notion that what I say or what I think is the only possibility existent.

If these shelves could talk they'd bleed him dry,
bring the struggles of the tender hearts to stand sword in hand on his doorstep, words screaming his dead ears hear and blind eyes see and lest cry for what he could never accept was I.

If you ask the page for the words to say it lay empty,
awaiting the pen to scrawl its surface in a voice silenced by the greed of one only seeing what he saw as my dream...
Was his dream...

I am not what I was said to be...

I am poetically,
undeniably,
Effortlessly,
me.

In jealousy he mocks me,
barking orders over my strife like boiling water to the skin,
His discomfort salts my open wounds.

I could scream,
but weakness is his and I am not him!
I could insult his feeble attempts at grasping my bones in his clutches, suffocating my organs in his glance heaving into my embodiment,

but I would hurt in his tears,

pain in the lashings I breed on his skin.

His scars would haunt me in all hours and I can not bare what he does to me...

lest I refuse what he wanted me to be.

Painful it must be for him to follow my dream on a path leading me away from what holds his bounds to my shaking step.

How deadly it be to watch the shackles fall from my spirit and be forbidden to follow the path I have chosen for it be a path he could never keep me from taking.

This be a letter for what is forgiven, and lest you be behind me and forgotten.

And if you ask him who am I, who I am, he opens his mouth to silence, lips moving in foreign bends....

I am pressed to the notion that to him I am everything he fails to comprehend, and nothing he cares to remember.

But yet...
I am not easy to forget.