She dreads the
Scrape
Of pencil across paper 
Fear paralyzes her fingers mid-stroke

Even if erased 
The pressed-in paper ghosts of her words remain visible when held to the light
Forged for eternity by number two lead

The problem is 
The great great grandsons of the greats 
Don't really care to hear the truths she has to tell
There’s no escaping the skin she was born with
Their minds are made about her
. . . Though their perceptions are all made-up 

The lucky ones do it 
Without struggle 
Without strife
Without knowing how hard it is
Knee-deep in stupid Grandfather-lottery luck
They aren’t used to being 
Stuck standing empty-handed 
Searching for the door marked “respect” 
Floating just

. . . Out of reach 

She doesn’t 
Can’t
Stop obsessing over every misstep 
She feels their gaze with every word
The human imagination is terribly powerful 

In a rush of writer’s relief, the last of her words splash down
But vaporize just as quickly
They’re not safe out in the open

. . . Maybe the world is better off
If she adopts a diplomatic drought

Her potential was only just blooming
But her hands are now forever empty
Left swirling in the wind as her pencil drops to the ground
It’s the ultimate betrayal
She’s started to think like them.