I’ve always regretted the times I didn’t speak up, the times I didn’t act, the times I didn’t stand out, and the times I didn’t go against the flow more than the times I stayed away from the fray.
On that subject here is a poem I wrote, to add to my silly verses pile:
‘This has to change’ they said
but Tommy had a plan
he’d studied the theory
he knew how this problem began
‘Does anyone know what to do?’
the request went out
but when they looked in the crowd
Tommy was no longer about
‘Anyone here have any idea?’
in unison people cried
but Tommy had run away worried
and the army came and people died
‘If only he’d answered’ they wondered
what if Tommy had spoken
maybe the people might’ve rallied
the barriers might’ve been broken
‘What if we knew what to do?’
if Tommy had shared his plan
his hopes and ideas for a world
a better future might be at hand
‘What if we had better ideas?’
what if he’d taught what he knew
maybe they’d each have fought by him
and would’ve won the battle too
‘What is the answer?’ you ask
does anyone know what it could be?
cause we are all scared Tommies
still needing to fight to be free
Note: I’m not saying we should all get behind one person, but that sometimes we could be the one person who could make a difference in a situation, even if it is to let others know we see and understand the same injustice they suffer too.
I’m not sure why I used the name Tommy, maybe because of its association with the common drafted soldier, who didn’t ask to be in a fight.
In childhood I wondered why some wrote poems about their pain while others screamed and cursed at those who caused it. In adulthood, my sister and I have become these two people.
The poets stand between those who fight for our freedoms and those who watch them slip away. Trauma mirrors this spectrum. Minor trauma releases emotions to allow the mind to create the words to describe them; major trauma forces emotions that operate the entire body: freeze, flight, fawn, fight. It's nature's gauge of how close the predator is to its prey. My sister and I have been very close to our predators.
Fawn and freeze have always been her responses. She writes her pain in poetry. I was frozen until fight emerged. Now I battle to the death or until I can escape. Fawning isn't in my repertoire, and I'm at peace with that. I feel my sister's timidity, a stark contrast to my rage. She downplays dangers that I see with piercing clarity.
Clarity may be nature's blessing to me, to a degree few others possess. They've labeled me autistic, savant - foolish attempts at misclassification. Our ancestors had better terms. Soothsayer would be more fitting. I must speak the truths I perceive. My heightened sensitivity constantly processes inputs, forming my understanding. My intense emotions demand expression, even at the risk of my life.
To recognize the sensitive as those who perceive what others can't would be giving due credit. Our systems want that credit. So they mark us for destruction, manipulating the unquestioning to carry it out. The emotionally mute obliterate the sensitive, even their own children. From birth, they seek to extinguish our flame. Fools always destroy their saviors; it's their destiny.
Emotions and sensitivity are gifts. History proves this. My feelings arise with such clarity that I can translate them into logic. Sadness questions why, asking the body to reveal patterns. Rage emerges with such force that it must be shouted, regardless of consequences. We scream to warn others before they too must fight for their lives.
In these spaces, echoists reign. Our emotions urge us to protect others, even as the emotionally mute serve us to predators. Their emotions remain silent until danger is imminent, leaving them unpracticed in interpreting their body and mind. But we, the sensitive, have been forced to practice our whole lives.
Now is the time for the sensitive to support each other. Yet I find poets afraid of those who speak clearly. Our differences are slight, merely in how we process the world and use its patterns.
We've been turned against each other, each thinking the other should change. As I face execution first, I'll look to you and say: we should have united to save ourselves while we still could.