In Response To Freedom of Expression

I know I should apologize for feeling
that obscenity is obscene.
Swallow my loathing and embrace the words
that open the gutters of the soul -
but they sicken me.

And I know you'll rail and cry,
"Self-expression above all!"
But what makes you want to rob me of my sleep
by the pictures you've painted of voluptuous shame
and the animal hunger that brutalizes people?
That reaches from your page to run its fingers through my hair
and whisper that I am no longer a person, but a victim
to be tortured, meat to grasp, a face to smack
and a child spit upon, with venom
that poisons the mirror I look into each morning?

I reached for your poem with the hope
that in this bitter world, we might find comfort
in the meeting of the minds.
But I found only the pain of a rabid dog's bite
cruelly snapping at the hearts of your trusting readers.
And I know you'll raise your fist and cry,
"Right to free speech!"
But where in your bill of rights
does the right to swing your fist end?
At the point where I am bruised and bloodied?
Or merely cringing on the floor,
abused by thoughts you trained to sink their fangs in me?

I would have loved you as a brother.
I would have seen through your eyes
and sung with your voice
and learned from your pain.
But you got there first, forcing your way
violently into my mind
before I even knew your name.
And I know you'll shrug and say,
"Life is about these things,"
But life is also about self-respect
and decency. And burying the dead,
and paying bills, and asking forgiveness

and so much more than four stunted letters that speak of dung
and creaking beds can begin to adequately describe.