I feel like the little man.
A small voice, a ball and chain,
Orb of low, rusty links of anxiety,
Letting others rule and reign.
I have imagined having some power
But not to be greedy or inhumane,
Just my small voice to be heard,
Not passed off as a nagging woman’s gain.
The weight hasn’t lifted off my ankle,
I’m still plagued with doubt in the brain,
Yet a hope I believed wasn’t breathing
Has reached up calling to campaign.
Maybe one person can speak loud.
Maybe it can be heard by the main.
Maybe there’s a maybe.
Maybe the future isn’t so plain.