Chisel

By virtue of birth and circumstance
I became an untall, unhandsome
unfair-skinned, shy immigrant boy
and given a chisel
with which I can either
while away the rest of my years
scratching my predetermined epitaph of quiet reservation

or take that chisel
and put its sharpest edge to my wit,
hone my physical form with strength and sculpting
and spit at heredity’s woe,
unrelenting, until I have carved away the
weakest parts of me and cast them aside
without blame, without doubt, without hesitance

to emerge defiant, breathing ravenously
piercing with new truths that obliterate the once fragile heart
to make it invincible with a new forging.

I am the tower of my own might.
I am the forgiver of my own sins.
I am the pawn that has been cast on this board of kings,
And I will be victorious.

 

 

About this poem

Written 9/21/02, 1:57am. My new mantra. It probably applies to a lot of people in this world, they just need to replace some of the adjectives. If you read it while listening to Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme”, it makes more sense.

We don’ need no stinkin’ Dr. Phil.

Thanks to Little Fawn for giving me the line, “I am the forgiver of my own sins.” I owe you lunch, darlin’.