Sheila Stahl

 

Standing Tall

 

Me standing tall with my head held high,

Took a wee bit more than cool spectacled eyes.

 

My life to the norm seems a Picasso mess,

Unfinished and messy and harmful at best.

 

What started before I took my first breath,

Then beaten and bruised, still I stand to attest.

 

Only myth to the kin who by blood would then hate,

Choosing fatherly saint, a brainwashed fate.

 

Sadly seems that the truth and the heart of it all,

Blindly stems from a book that touts, "Stand straight and tall."

 

My heart breaks indeed, from the thought, "I'll not see,"

Precious breaths, crooked smiles and scraped little knees.

 

My place here on earth, often baffling to me,

Beckons strength to rise up, to fight, never flee.

 

Ninety laws may be passed for the bigots, you see,

But the battles are won by the people like me.

 

 

 

 

Home