my submissions are under your feet
as you extend them on your messy desk
read them behind greasy glass screen
while you judge who gets the firing squad
I lay sleepless, waiting for the bullets
to reach my mind and heart
I know approval isn’t a piece of
meat you give to a street cat, or mediocre isn’t
acceptable into your exclusive gangs
rejection is fine. Don’t you know
that my arabness is also a rejection letter
handed to me every day with my coffee?
rejection is ok. Don’t you know
that being a poet is also a rejection letter
sent to you with rejected job applications?
don’t you know that I reject my rejection
I still submit, heal from my bullet wounds
there’s a bit of me wants your nod, but won’t
give a shit if you don’t approve.