Chomping At The Bit Poem by Mark Heathcote

Where is equality, hiding, aren't we all equal.
Do I have to be queer or a feminist?
Nowadays to write good poetry,
that's seen-as-worthy of being read, today.
Do I have to be African or of eastern origin
it fills me with such fury all these sub-divisional
submission guideline requests; they only serve
to make me angry, curse.
Do I need to be a victim of sexual abuse
a victim of somebodies misplaced vice;
worse events a massacre, a victim of gun-crime
to write a sincere candid piece or share my voice.
Am I not worthy to speak, oh, why, yes?
My moods aren't heavy enough,
they're changeable a little bit caprice
but I can be nice or-as-unpleasant as the next;
I can vex, I promise you, with the very best.
Nothing is, above-or-beneath me, I'm a victim
of life, a blessing at times that's far too much
where is equality, hiding, aren't we all equal.
It seems that nothings further from the truth
when-we've-all this chomping at the bit to be different.