I can’t always make sense of the voices in my head–
whispering, commanding, shouting, crying,
and all of them always overlapping.
They all always want something,
a voice to tell the world their stories,
their needs,
their anger,
and I’m happy to be that voice.
There’s nothing for me in their need,
but I don’t need there to be:
I’m not in it for gain or glory,
and even writing that down smacks of hubris, to me–
that I could dare to say
I let the gods speak through me.
What arrogance, to claim to speak for the divine,
though it is less pride and more
that I see myself only as a tool:
a megaphone, a mouthpiece, an intercom,
no more than that, and easy enough to replace
if I break down, misbehave,
or taint anything they say
with my own bias or words.
I do not speak for the gods;
rather, they allow me to serve them–
even more, they use me like
I might use a hammer to drive a nail
to hang a picture on the wall,
and I am content to be of use,
though it is often
confusing, distracting, worrying, fearful,
and sometimes even painful.
But I would not give it up for anything,
though sometimes I think it will drive me mad;
I know how blessed and privileged I am,
to be able to hear their voices
–and with such clarity–
when so many others can hear none of them,
and if I am sometimes overwhelmed,
it is a small price to pay
to know they exist, to be of use to them,
and to know that what I do
reaches others
and makes Them happy.
All Their Voices 