Just imagine a world Where more people read poetry Instead of giving breath To things that divide and cause fear.
Imagine a world Where more people picked up a pen Than a gun or a sword Or even a lawyer.
Imagine a world Where poets were the dealers That troubled souls turned to for a hit; Where people self-medicated with poetry Rather than drugs or alcohol To help them deal With their demons; Where addiction brought life and hope, Mindfulness and restoration To the broken, The hurting, The needy.
Imagine a world Where everyone knew and understood That they are not alone, That someone understands, That they are enough.
I’ve never understood why people feel the need to pressure someone to conform. Why are they so intimidated by someone daring to think for themselves, pursue their own dreams and make choices according to their own preferences?
And what I really don’t get is how they can say they love someone and yet reject particular qualities that makes that person who they are.
These are the thoughts that have contributed to a poem I finished recently.
The imagery is macabre and horrifying. The message is dark. None of that will surprise anyone who knows my writing.
I won’t discuss the details of the situations that led to it being written. Suffice to say that there are people in various “circles” in which I live and move who have, at one time or another, exerted significant pressure on me to be less individual and more compliant with the way they like or want things to be.
I have some bad news for them.
I will not submit to their peer pressure. As adults, they should know better.
I will not moderate my politics, my social conscience, or my rampant individuality for them.
I will not be submissive or silent in response to their bad behaviour, intolerance and hypocrisy.
If they don’t like it, they can go and boil their heads.
Of course, that’s all excellent news for me. In the immortal words of the Monty Python team, “I’m not dead yet!”
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