The lift and strain of traffic as it slides <br />down cool November streets. <br /> A hustle and bustle, hurly-burly, ingested <br />kind of day. <br />A distinct flavour of of washing soap <br />photoed in my mind. <br /> <br />Movement to the left, movement <br />to the right. Tossing my arm out <br />like a military no-mind I stomp <br />through the blaze of the grey. <br /> <br />'I will not be shouted at! <br />I will not be ignored' <br /> <br />Dead brown grass blowing like <br />spiders weaving insect repellent <br />parading on the ground. <br />The sound of shuffling feet echoes <br />like ice picks in my ears. <br />Floating in mid-sentence, I only <br />speak when I am inclined. <br /> <br />'I'm no longer inclined to want <br />to share with you. <br />I am no longer interested <br />in conforming to the norm.' <br /> <br />Saws are buzzing angrily as <br />they work to take the trees away. <br />Flies hide like lepers in the <br />dung hills of their alarm. <br />November came complete <br />with a whimper, a strangling <br />sort of no nonsense vowels. <br /> <br />Inside, the cough dropp melts as <br />it slides down my throat. <br />I'm prisoner and jailer, <br />executioner and saviour. <br /> <br />'I'm not to be hurt. <br />I'm not to be insulted.' <br /> <br />Closing coat around emancipation. <br />Shutting mind to ulterior motives. <br />Outside the frolicsome emptiness <br />motivates another crowd to survive.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-will-not-be-shouted-at/
