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.