A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman

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I guess I see hallways
differently than other people
do, or at least that's what they say

Filled with life and love and music and
people with every intention to change the world
while remaining the same, but I am unfooled

by the way they tip-toe around each other and
feign eye contact when the principal stands at guard
but they don't quite see me the way I see them

though my appearance says a fair amount
about me; tie-dye and blue jeans
hair mostly undone and uncanny smirk

tucked neatly and subtly within a mane
of unmanageable fly-aways, hair with a mind of
its own, but we have so much in common.

There's something about my shoulders, collarbones
more delicate than -- I suppose -- people would expect of
someone of ... my build. But that, of course,

doesn't matter so long as the way you carry yourself
is dignified, and the way you treat your compatriots,
empathetic and attentive. I've heard it said that

you can hear the music I enjoy radiating from my
shoulder blades as I walk by and the tap-tap-tap of my shoes
is some beat like steady man walking in step with his army

and I remember that note that was written to me about how much
people missed me when I left, and how the air was stiller,
the people quiet.

See, when lioness roars
the savanna quiets
and the animals return to slumber.





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