i am who

by nicole c. fix

i am an explorer and of the word who
i wonder about—a world wearied
and as overwritten as a sucky book.
i hear the cries of the children
buried by the waves of sadness
over india’s pain.
i see the devastation of a land
consumed by water
as if someone spit on it—
and we have—just not today.
i want to pick up the axe of justice & action
and wield it—chop
up the metals of hatred, but all
i really feel i do is chatter
socialist blah, blah, blah,
and i touch nobody, do nothing
for nobody.
i cry for the word of the peoples
because they are not heard from inside thatched huts—
perfection means nothing to moneyed men.
i am an explorer and of the word who
i understand—that for all the books
i am the ignorant baby
born of clear eyes
the true keeper of the innocent.
i say this is the ramblings
of a weathered woman without
the belief in humanity
but belief of the world, and
i caress the contradiction of me, so
i can try to stay positive
when the black sucks
me, the giant vacuum of negativity.
i hope for tomorrow; i hope for the world
cuz
i am an explorer and of the word.
WHO?