PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Permit me entrance into your room's privacy.

I know it is the only place in which you find shelter---

from your family's disapproval, but even more

from your classmate's persecutorial mockery:  all

because your adolescence is, somehow, different;

because the jagged contours of their inhibited expectations

cannot confuse, control, or even compromise your nature.

Your peers hate you because they have frighened themselves 

afraid:  you remind them of truth that they cannot deny;

you are powerful in ways they cannot begin to admit; and

they envy the exquisite delicacy of your soul's affections

that seek to be expressed through your most intimate desires.

No shoes, no shirt, no confinements in your room:

here your hair, falling just below your bare shoulders, is not too long;

here your faded cargo pants are not too baggy;

here the chosen mismatch of your stripey socks is not too defiant.

Here the melody of your favorite love songs, conveyed by headphones,

banishes the cacophony of the haters' shrill and inane chatter.

Enough about them:  this chamber is a penetralia, a

place of safety, comfort, and even delectation.  Mine, too, was

like this is:  my walls, like yours, were covered with the pictures

clipped from magazines mostly marketed to so-called "teeny boppers";

like me, you have to face the quizzical stares or condemnatory frowns of

minimum wage cashiers who cannot refuse to accept your money).

Like your favorites, my own---BS, DC, SC, LE---always shirtless and

barefoot---smiled as if to welcome me to the encouragements of

their embraces.  I believed their tongues and lips, hands and fingertips

(and even toes!) knew just how and where and when to touch me, and

that they would gladly shudder with delight in response to the eager, but

awkward and clumsy caresses I offered to their gorgeous bodies.

But I digress, and have sought admission to your presence in order to

offer you these poems that celebrate the way you need to love (of

course, I understand it is a vital need, not a choice).   Admittedly, I am the

most minor of minor poets that you may read; but not even the

most magnified of majors, Vergil himself (who was more like you than

you may now suspect) can predict the future that you will experience.

But it will be your future---yours, not the Poets' and not the haters'; but

yours---a present that is a gift to yourself:  this they can never

wrest from you.

Starward 

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