Mire

I do not have the brain to be myself.

I grope towards me, but cannot seem to reach.

My soul sometimes seems put up on a shelf

Where from the box my insides slowly leach.

I want to think, but when I try I grind

Like gears too long un-oiled or unused.

There is an awful jamming in my mind

Where what was understanding is confused.

I used to leap from thought to thought with ease

Where now to say I plod would be too much;

A keyboard doesn't work with sticky keys

Nor do I think. I can't release the clutch

Enough to even settle in a gear.

Even reverse would be relief from here.

Decorah

Decorum has it's time and place, it's true.

When equals speak to equals, or when power

Speaks down to those who it tells what to do

That is decorum's right and proper hour.

But when the weak speak out against the strong,

Those trodden down against the treading heel;

When commons makes its case against the crown

And those beneath resist the rolling wheel

Their words are theirs, and, if indecorous,

The content, not the setting, matters more.

There is no right to triumph without fuss;

Decorum's no excuse to crush the poor.

If you object to what they say, say why;

Don't hide behind decorum. It's a lie.