poetry

uncompliant

Give in? They say don't. And I won't...

Give in?
They say don’t.

And I won’t.

Not to what they mean,
That buffoonish beast unseen;
I’ll not limply go,
By push or pull or blow,
Into the cracked and granite-toothed maw
Of sadness.
I’m compelled by no law
Of man or utter madness
To offer myself to be preyed upon
By something bigger than me.

And I won’t.

I’m the giant.
Courageously uncompliant,
A colossus in motion.
I’m a chest-beating beast myself,
Loosed from the whip and a strong chain.
I incite against the notion
Walls will hold me;
Heartache may open the cage,
Beckon me back in while sleeving the key,
But I’m too sage
To let any piercing pain
Confine me to being one feather less than free.

And I won’t.

Joy awaits me,
She sings sweetly about a home
I’ve yet to indwell.
But there is no magic, no siren spell,
That will transport me there.
I will climb and through a restless hell
Of storm clouds rip and tear
My way to that place.
The fantastic feats
Of all mythology will palely compare
To the jousts and turns of my tale.
I’ll search all escarpments of creation
For the face of elation,
Fully expecting to find the whole of hope
Smiling upon it,
Whispering: you did not fail.

And I won’t.

Such are the wages of war:
So much balances on my decision
To go forth or remain,
And much more
On the who and what I battle for.
Iron-fistedly swing or refrain?
Give up or give in?
Does it depend?
Yes, but not on my resolve,
Not on my refusal to be eaten alive,
Not on my rage against sorrow,
Or my readiness to evolve,
Or my ever-increasing skill to kungfu kick
A me-shaped hole into tomorrow;
Rather, it hangs singly on my desire
To be happy and at peace,
To be contentedly still.
Until then, even with only a toothpick
And a match’s fire,
I will stingily, sweatily,
Sword-swingingly strive
To defend my heart’s honor.

Give in?
They say don’t.

But I will.

Just not to what they mean.


 

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