Cinder Block Wall

I.

No matter what I wear, I'm still
the same color as these
pebbly white cinder-block walls
dividing rooms from hallways
and might as well divide me
from those who aren't
invisible. It's just as well
there aren't any mirrors around;
if I looked in one now I'd see only
pebbly white.

II.

Part of it is that I'm so
quiet. I can't think of anything
to say--so I don't. I can't.
The Day of Silence was a protest
but what am I protesting now?
Only my own
silence.

III.

There's a spotlight aimed at
a point two yards in front of me
and I'll never step forward
because I know I can't sing.
So I stay half-hidden behind
the curtain and watch
someone else stand in that
stretched-out puddle of light
and pretend not to notice
that their shadow falls
on me.

IV.

I guess every performer needs
an audience and that's me. I
watch and I applaud when I can
and I exist so someone else
can act. Because
it's not acting when there's no one
to be fooled.

V.

There's too many things
I tell myself I can't
possibly do, no,
leave it to those who
won't mess it all up.
My greatest oppressor is
myself and I'm
not letting me go
and be the person I'm
so afraid I'm not, the one
I know I'll never be.
And that's what keeps me
confined.

VI.

No one notices
the wall.