A Monologue… Of Sorts

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. 

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6 thoughts on “A Monologue… Of Sorts

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