I am in a room full of people.
I know I am speaking, but they are not listening.
My words flee from my mouth with purpose.
They enter one of their ears and are heard,
then pushed out the other ear where they fall
and shatter onto the ground.
I see the broken pieces and grit my teeth with malice.
Too many times I picked up the pieces of my broken words.
Now I pray they cut into the bottoms of their feet
so they may be felt more sharply than I ever dared say them.
The hurt in my eyes is unseen, however,
by the people with the deep-set scowls.
The lenses they balance carefully on their eyes
tilt my frown into a smile.
Truly, they have grown thick skin on the bottoms of their feet
so they may walk over my shattered sentences
while their hands are too soft to piece them back together.
And the lenses they wear to distort the world
make it not better to them than it is
but only more comfortable.
Even as you read this
through lenses of your own
you believe that you are me.
Who else shall you play
in this abstract poetry
than the victim who goes unheard.
Truly I tell you
that you are more than correct.
As I put on my glasses,
and step on your words,
while your frown looks to me, a smile.