i am... <br />the woodcutter, <br />cutting and stacking wood, <br />for the fire i'll never know. <br />i am the taste <br />of rain drenched leaves, <br />and the silence just after. <br />i am the soot <br />on the miners face, <br />his only mark of identity. <br />i am the black man, <br />who knowing his journey well, <br />having pride in his roots, <br />steps beyond bitterness. <br />i am the woman, <br />forced to sleep in the closet, <br />hands worn by the broom... <br />who finally steps free. <br />i am the poor man, <br />with tired calloused hands, <br />his jaw firmly set, <br />he's had all he's going to take. <br />i am the child, <br />who never knew his father, <br />whose mother worked two shifts, <br />so he could go to school. <br />i am the outcast, <br />condemned by the church, <br />shunned by his neighbors, <br />because he is different. <br />i am the echo, <br />of your guilt and your need, <br />the shout of your actions. <br />the cry of hunger in your sleep!<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-am-the-woodcutter/
