Moesha Brisonette

Jamaica, October, 1997

Move

I don't want to get up.
I don't want to move.
I know eventually someone is going to come in and tell me to move.
I can't stay there forever, they will say.
If you stay there, the world will pass you by.
You won't fall in love or have your first Kiss.
I won't try to convince them otherwise way, they won't believe I am tired.
Tired of moving, the world they claim will pass me by as being sucking me dry,
beating me at every turn, not a decent moment to love nor laugh.
The world hates and they know, but they think I lie when I show it.

I don't want to face the music or feel the sun.
I want to stay here forever, although I won't be forever young.
I like it here, the peace, the quiet, no looks, no stares, and no frown.
There is no loud sound, no demands staring no down.
I like it, more then I should.
If I move my world is undone. I will fell weak in the knees, my heart will race while my head spins.
I will have to face what they call the music, and my heart is already thin.
I don't want to get up, but I hear them coming.
Their steps are strong and angry, coming to take what I call my own.
They will win. They will let me move.
They will shout. "Get your ass out of bed now."


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