Yes, I’m a Poet,
but I refuse to be tormented
I refuse to be a victim,
with my words made out of stone
I refuse to bleed my heart out,
on a page of blank simpatico
I refuse to give you weakness,
knowing strength you have disowned
Yes, I’m a Poet,
but my sword is sharp and pointed
My shield is scarred and colored
with the blood of firebrands
My breath won’t plead while shouting,
every name a future conquest
My pen in hand, a weapon sure,
—its ink the truth commands
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)