Hands move freely
covering over my words
which form in patterns,
shaping the world around me.
Drawn from deep thought
my body tells a story
of love, life, and tragedy
but no one ever listens.
Walking by me each day,
always ignoring my pain.
Why don't they notice
the tears that
smear my makeup?
Performing in silence
was no longer my art,
sorrow spills on sidewalk,
disrupting chalk drawings
causing colors to seep
into a mixed sea.
Misunderstood views,
you mimic me, expression
becomes endangered.
No longer will I need
a spokesperson,
as of today
my silence is broken.
I will not be put in a box
like my Cousin Jack.

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27 old applause
