I am invisible. Not literally, but I may as well be. Not everyone listens, not everyone hears. It’s like I’m a ghost. The color of my skin doesn’t help. I’m not transparent, I’m just black. A Negro, that’s all. I live my life just like everyone else, but nobody sees me as a remarkable person. But I have words of my own. Words that any man would want to listen to. I speak like an individual; I have earned my right as a citizen to speak when I want. I dare the man who tries to get in my way. So I think with this community it became an instigating promise. Most of these people like when I articulate- they believe in what I have to say. But when I say something that they don’t like they turn on me. Lose their faith. Rid me of their presence. It certainly isn’t fair. These things, these people around me, wanted to use me. Use my talent as an orator to bring change. I was a weapon of war. Except I think that fighting is easier to do when you feel broken inside. The people who have hurt my ego had too much pride in themselves that it overflowed into a river of jealousy. The wind carried their confusion and whipped me. The Harlem heat wove strands of fire through the non-believers and wouldn’t let them go. Not until I tried to cut them loose. Unfortunately I was only a tool. The interest of the street was a much greater demand than some no-name Negro. So my decision to live the way I do was basically forced upon me. Being alone was safe, secure, and I didn’t have a world to hate me.