Yes, I’m a Poet,
but I refuse to be conscripted

I refuse to be a victim,
my words made out of stone

I refuse to bleed my heart out,
on a page of blank simpatico

I refuse to give you weakness,
knowing strength you have disowned

Yes, I’m a Poet,
but my sword is sharp and pointed

My shield is scarred and colored
with the blood of firebrands

My breath won’t plead while shouting,
every name a future conquest

My pen in hand, a weapon sure
—its ink the truth commands

(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2016)