The curtain opens and a person speaks.
“The shortest poem I know, is of Sir Walt Whitman.
A leaf falls.
A letter for every line and the letter S gliding like a falling leaf.
A lovely poem depicting truth. Reality and poetry embodied in one sentence.
Our teacher explained that poetry is life. And that life is poetry. She said the whole of life is a poem and poets and storytellers only capture snippets. I know very little about life, I admit. And I am not ashamed to say it. I know that I am all too naive for most of those who hear this. But I am not voiceless. So I stand up loud and proud to say, that I am proud I grew up this way. Not one drop of tear is to be shred. But to those I have offended, I am sorry. I am sorry, for being not good enough; I am sorry I am who I am. I am sorry I am not … you; sorry for being a disappointment; for all the dreams you have listed for me that I have not accomplished. I am sorry, I am not like your kids, full of eagerness and quick wits. I am sorry for being a failure; a humiliation. For being the joke and the outcast.
I accept it.
I do not hold no grudge.
I do not look to you all for pity.
For I, like D.H. Lawrence, have never seen a wild thing feel sorry itself.”
The speaker stops and the curtain closes.