Have I screamed from the corners
Of my home and the backstreets and
Alleys of my quiet town
Loud enough to be heard?
Have I voiced myself in silence oft
Enough to be recognized?
Who am I but just one person
On a road which splits a thousand ways,
A resident whose city claims millions
Of other inhabitants.
What have I of worth to say, even
If my voice was like the touch
Of Midas, should no one listen?
This world may be no more than
A cold shoulder with bodies busying
Themselves simply to stay warm.
Pay no heed to me or others
Of like similarity, for we know
This world much too well:
There is but little attention to go ’round.