Originally Posted by *Dissident*
All of the oddities in what i say like that are on purpose for poetic means, because it is a vignette. btw, here is my final version for class presentation:
My Voice, However, is Loud
As my weapon of choice moves across the ruled paper it becomes a blade. The tip of my Ticonderoga sword swipes and gouges the censors, the leaders, the Oppressors who are my enemies. Who are my enemies? There are many of them, almost to many to name.
My enemies are those that tower over those they believe they are lesser than them, those that suppress my creativity with conformity, anyone who has power; those are my enemies. They are the politicians, the headmasters, and the corporate employers. They are those that embrace the â€œAmerican Dreams of compromise, conformity, assimilation, submission, ignorance, hypocrisy, brutality, the eliteâ€ ; these are my enemies. Some of them have names, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Lee R. Raymond, Albert Cauz, yet there are some whose names I donâ€™t even know, and faces I have never seen. They are everywhere, and but can be found nowhere, like stale air. They can be seen by all, as bright as the glow of the cathode ray tube, and escape all of our vision, like the wool they pull over our eyes.
They are on TV, radio, in the newspapers and magazines. They are making speeches, and storming beaches, and are visible in the farthest reaches. However, behind closed doors of oak and brass, the veil of secrecy like a shadow from the streetlights, they are different. Through tyranny of abused power and torture without Habeas Corpus, and they control the populous, like mutts on a leash. â€œSit, and I will give you table scrapsâ€ they say. â€œShut up, stupid dogs! I am trying to work!â€
They are looking back for answers for today, wondering why it isnâ€™t working now either. They want the good olâ€™ days, with hot apple pie like a gooey furnace that they used to get from their apron mothers on Prozac. The dream of the days where at school, where some people werenâ€™t allowed to go, they could practice for the imminent air raids the evil commies were going to conduct. Oh, the glory days.
But today, oh no, today is different. There are people like me who donâ€™t want those things. We think differently. We think of new ideas, new styles, and new solutions, to new problems. They donâ€™t like that much. They prefer the old ones. Therefore, they fight me. They fight to keep things the same, the same as they used to be. They fight the only ways they know how: silencing me with quiet censorship, wounding my spirit by insulting me criticizing me, and devastating my conscious by calling me hateful and stupid. However, I am to smart for them; I can solve these new problems.
As I fend off their weak attempts at wounding me I laugh at them. The hilt of my sword, as familiar as breathing, and as powerful as the tree it was made of, channels my efforts into the sharp graphite point, covered in the blood they spilled from the innocent soldiers, and aimed where it will hurt them most; their people. When they see what I have done to them, they will not know what to do. I am a threat, something to stamp out and get rid of as soon as possible. But it is not I who will be gotten rid of.
I produce the only combination of stabs and swipes that will inflict my message of free thought upon them, and they are wounded. They threaten me with their vows of swift and silent retribution, and they turn my fellow Americans against me to hate me, to fear me. But my shield is as impenetrable as the concrete bunkers they try to destroy, and my #2 sword never stops attacking at their cold hearts. They call me an unpatriotic rebel, as evil as the terrorists they accuse, and not worth listening to. But I call them lying scoundrels, who twist and bend information like twigs until it just snaps; but no one notices. They are monopolizing the industry, and terrorizing with infantry; they are cruelest enemies. And I know it. And I try to do something about it.
We fight until the pale moon rises in the evening, and fight until the autumn sun rises morning, but they cannot harm me, because I know what they will do. They have no weapons of mass distraction that I cannot parry, no low blow I cannot counter. As I reveal them with protest, and undermine them with peace, they run in fear like the chocolate children they have not cared for, and return in anger like the war they wont cease.
I am always on their mind, and they are always on mine. All day they sit in their Big Business offices and find new ways to destroy me, to silence me, but to no avail. They will try to find ways to demoralize me by telling me I am wrong, to change me by telling me they are right, to censor me by taking away my mediums, and to silence me by oppression. But my will is steadfast, my determination strong, my words immortal, and my voice, my voice, is loud. Louder than their hot and hateful guns, and louder than their propaganda radios with no off button! Louder than the unfed babies crying, and young men dieing, and loving mothers crying! Louder than they can ever imagine, louder than I can ever hope to yell, my voice is loud! My voice, however, is loud.