Am I not important in your mordant opinion?
Or do I lie dormant in your mind all because
I do not meet your expectation of formation
In some sensational vocation of acclamation?
What is your judgment of me the writer, social
Biter, cultural fighter? Am I just your blighter?
Or is there, perhaps, some trendy envy from
Your exalted position of corporate ambition?
Perhaps, yes, I could be a tactician, technician
Or grand physician … but I’ve chosen instead
To be an honest poet who’s gladly bled his soul
In ink onto paper; to think about this world
And not blink at evil or to wink at the wicked,
Or to shrink from giving voice to the voiceless,
And the oppressed, repressed, and marginalized
I am Poet.