As a general rule, I don’t write poetry. But once in a while, I do.
The most I could expect was two years.
Twelve to fifteen months, they say,
Is still the average survival rate.
Sometimes I feel like I won the lottery.
Sometimes I feel like a bulletproof superhero.
Sometimes I feel like I sneaked into
Some kind of exclusive private club,
A VIP area of the universe
I didn’t even know existed
Until I walked in
While the bouncers on the door
Were looking the other way.
Now everyone here
Takes it for granted that
I’m allowed to be here, too,
To walk around,
Strike up conversations,
Eat the hors d’oeuvres and canapés,
Drink the good stuff,
Listen to the music
Lounge on the comfy couches and chairs,
Breathe the air.
If Security somehow find out
That I’m a crasher and
They try to make me leave,
I’ll dig in my heels and refuse to go.
If they bring in a team to drag me out,
I’ll go kicking and screaming.
I’ll grab onto door jambs,
I’ll hug the floor,
Sink my nails into the carpeting,
Twisting and turning so
They can’t get a good grip on me.
I didn’t come here to leave.
I won’t go quietly—
‘With dignity’, as they say.
Dignity, my ass.
They can keep dignity.
The velvet ropes again,
It won’t be because I bowed my head,
Folded my hands,
And didn’t make a scene.
It will be because an irresistible force
Dragged me away––
Still kicking and screaming, of course.
I don’t care if kicking and screaming
Won’t make any difference.
Kicking and screaming is how I roll.
I don’t rage against the dying of the light—
I am the rage that keeps the light on.
I’m the rage that won’t do as I’m told,
That won’t surrender.
I’m the rage that burns bright
And refuses to burn out.
I’m the rage that won’t quit and