Midnight birth of a poet in hiding

Quote Prompt: "Because to take away a man's freedom of choice, even his freedom to make the wrong choice, is to manipulate him as though he were a puppet and not a person." by Madeleine L'Engle.

Midnight birth of a poet in hiding

My life thus far had been about bread and subterfuge;
survival by camouflage, life under the radar. The only choice allowed
was in whom to put my trust, what little trust remains in a world of fear.
I was a puppet born to a life of toil whose time was not my own,
for if it were, there is a risk that time would not be wisely spent.
We were all puppets allowed food and drink, but just enough,
for what mutiny would transpire if the masses were allowed
to amass a hoard of food or cigarettes, lest trade and trust take root.
Or what about extra spirits, for us common folks might lose their heads
so drunk on opportunity and struck blind by the absence of experience,
we’d be toes up from excess. It’s a risk, yes, but then, isn’t free will
the choice to do oneself in on one’s own volition?

We were all mere puppets then, doled only a coin or two at once
lest we waste time on frivolous pursuits; a show, some shoes?
Or squander our pennies for paper, pencil, books,
a ticket to freedom.  What about an unwise bet, you ask? That too.
With my own few coins, I took a risk, bought paper and pencils
instead of milk and bread.  And from your shaming
grew my indignation, and from this anger, a fire was lit.
I spent stolen moments in the darkest hours of night
kindling this tiny spirit in my womb, protected until it was time.
Finally, there was a midnight birth of a poet in hiding.
And from my throat erupted the birthing pains of freedom.
With pencil stroke, I cut the cords and I was free.

You see, even a pencil can be a weapon against oppression.
A pencil in a poet’s hands is like a gun in yours.
A word, written and shared, could wreck the fiercest autocracy
or loose the grip of control by a tyrannical spouse.
You, who control with a vacuum of choice, beware.
Even in places where you’ve denied the sun to shine,
there are those in dark corners with pencils, waging war.
And you, with your knuckles white on the crossbars,
are the least free of all.  How, you ask?  Well, tell me,
what choices have you now? To let go and risk mutiny
or upheaval of roles, or to maintain your bloodless hold
while your little puppets dance with mockery upon your soul?

By my pencil, I have released my will from your grip. 
May those you rule learn to dance on their own, to cut their own cords. 
For I fear, it will be a long time coming before courage finds you
with nothing but pencil in hand, and nowhere else to run.

PWW Entry Jan/Feb 2013
(40 lines -not including spaces and title)