It’s My Pleasure. It’s not that I want to relate
To the general populous. I speak my truth
From a place where few humans are willing to tread.
I spend much of my time there. To most I am dead.
In the place where my heart lives, am I that uncouth
As to let those outside it determine my fate?

I relate to my darkness. I see it play out
In what is called reality. Myself I see
In the lava of hatred. Its volcanic ash
Has the taste of my writings retrieved from the trash.
But, again, It’s My Pleasure. I’m willing to be
The small voice from the darkness. That’s all I’m about.

It just feels good to do this. I know it makes sense…
Quite a bit more than spending time eating the war.
Unaware of the soundbite, it knows not of me.
To be grateful I’m unknown is not to be free
From a darkness that I have encountered before.
If I write, who will read me? I toil in pretense.

It’s My Pleasure… a saying uttered in response
To someone having said, “Thank you for what you do,”
Is a strong held assumption that I make with ease.
Army weapons could silence me. Who would that please
In this place become third world? That could well be you.
Does it matter that my speech is clothed in nuance?