Old Walking Stick

I have an old walking stick
A crutch of sorts
Something that I've leaned on
Perhaps everyone has one

It is my weapon against my enemy
With its deftly concealed blade
Whereupon I have pledged to stab it
Into his heart

But the stick is old
It is made by my enemy
And his contemporaries
Crafted with hatred

It is familiar to his touch
Not mine
It is an instrument of his will
Not mine

It is phallic and long
The penetrator
Male in all aspects
Made for domination

I must forsake this thing
This instrument of manhood
This instrument of whiteness
This instrument of power

I must forsake my own power
And take up the arms of those that suffer
To become as they were
Once weak, now strong

I must craft new weapons
With the new knowledge I have
Stand on my own two feet
And raise my voice

Among those that have been raped
Those that have been beaten
Those that have been trampled
By my enemy and his kind

Those that tower over us
Will crumble under their own weight
When we refuse to be their crutches
And we come into our own

We will rise anew
Creations of hope
Strong and again proud
Without shame

[Note for later, perhaps a rewrite. A note on the abandon of whiteness and maleness as a source of power. The use of my place as homosexual as a starting point of embrasing otherness.]

-o0o-