The Departure

I rather be broke than a slave to an identity,

shuffling and jiving

only this time in well pressed clothes

cleverly cloaking my pain, my authenticity

Do this!

Do that!

he barks

You're too slow!

Work faster!

he yells

Always so animated when it comes to his paper

a true portrait of American exceptionalism

such a distressed man, nearly killing himself deeply inside

every day

every night

with each new email

with each new conference call and business meeting

but never mind all that

he has a several thousand dollar suit

he slaves multiple jobs neglecting his own wellness

but it's all good because he's making that paper

and he has the luxury to judge me on how unworthy to his lifestyle I am

as he clouds his mind with further doubt from his favorite liquor bottle

only to resume living an existence rich with such insecurity

only to be masked by his outbursts

covered up in his hostility

the anger that is neatly disguised

under the facades of civility and professionalism

all the while he continues to hurt

he may even be dying inside

and a part of him knows this

so he screams

so he yells

that anger gradually beginning to show its full redness

projecting all of his unchecked pain onto me

He says that I don't have what it takes

that I'm ungrateful for what he offers

yet all he ever offered were lies

all he ever offered was hypocrisy

He constantly put me down

trying his damnedest to bring me on his level

so again I say

I rather be dirt poor

a starving artist who has nothing but her light to offer this healing world

without a single penny to my name

this I prefer

over perpetuating such violence

such suppression of human grace and power

no amount of money is worth that

my worth is in being a sovereign human being

as does he

as do you

so I wish him well

As I officially depart this burning house