i like the chill that races up my spine
when my voice projects too loudly
it reminds me that my voice is mine
and so i'll shout from the rooftops proudly

my voice is most often soft
people rarely hear me speak
they look around, did someone squawk?
nope, it was more like a tinny squeak

i'm not the bravest person
yet my opinions urge me to speak my mind
every blue moon i'll gather the courage
and my definition of brave is redefined

my voice may be small but when it rains it pours
my mouth grew wings and away it will soar
bringing me to heights i never knew
speaking is only worth it if the words are true

today my barbaric yawp will be heard
both in written and spoken word
i will not hide behind the veil of silence
silence may be golden but being loud is preferred

My trembling,
pimpled little
yawp

on its way over
the rooftops,

Was blown by a whim,
bounced off
a gable

and fell into
the backyard
of a preacher

It was spitted,
and brushed
and cooked to a turn

Then served up
with coleslaw
to a chortling
crowd of
the brethren

after a sermon,
of course,
and hymns
and grace

and a chorus
of heartfelt
amens