I look up at the girls and they look over me
They know I am here, they just choose not to see
They can see with their ears, though one has none
Neither understanding what a human calls fun
But is it even fun for me? This work that I do?
Is killing stress what fun is to you?
They’re beating me down, I’m empty, torn apart
They belittle me for trying to perform my art
They think art is just a painting, or marks on a page
A poet on open mic night, a dancer on a stage
So does it even matter, what person I try to be?
I look up at the girls and they look over me

Enjoy today’s haiku:

Hard, shell-like plastic
Could it really be much more
Than just metaphor?