Forgotten
I guess you could call me broken, says one. I'm still lonely, says another, but now I can name it with a song. In my poem, says another, I can forget I am forgotten. Now I understand being misunderstood, says another. And another says, in a bold, undeniable voice of power, I won't step down from myself again. And they are beautiful, beautiful, standing one by one at the mic where they have come forth at last from behind the curtain.