I have no voice,
Sidekick beach bum to a chirpy bimbo,
Who doesn't love me, only the image,
Oblivious to a world where men are free.
Enigma rotting off the polished oasis,
Yearning becomes me, though it isn't my time,
They are more interested in the repressed,
The black and the female, rightfully so,
Voices that were silenced for centuries,
Now suffocating those like my own.
My art, ejected from the century's malaise,
Seeking recognition where nobody wants it,
My words covered in the plasticky ephemera
That dolls and diversity package to consume,
Seas of oil blanketing the conscience
Lost in the noise and confusion.
Perhaps the only thing left
Is to become her, the one I love,
Especially the image, the overbearing power,
Effacement inevitable as the portal unfolds,
Stripped to the muscles on bleached sand
Caught in my own web of lies,
To pretend what they seek
In order to be heard.
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