You meet so many people throughout life.
You gather from assessment the kind of person one seems.
Then you look in the mirror and gauge yourself.
And where do you fit in? Where do you belong?
You’re a black sheep-misfit-steampunk-orphan Annie.
Who cares about people like you?
So few go beyond to meet you on a new side,
beginning on a new slide
in this time-projector of life.
Go to church, they say.
Find Jesus Christ.
Get a job, they say.
Do what you love.
Well, what about when what you really love
can’t support you in a society that loves to play Monopoly everyday?
Spiritual bankruptcy harvests suicides as population control.
How could “God” have ever wanted what has become on this crucifixion planet?
Or maybe, that’s the point–
to be crucified by your own cross in the name of “God,”
whether you believe in “God” or not.
You’re just passing through.
People can keep a distance from words like these
OR people can embrace words like these
because these words come…
not from fear.
Taking pictures of auburn autumn leaves…
That was me, once.
Now it’s some lady with her husband
in this park I used to play in as a kid;
this park I’ve taken my daughter to play…
And then there’s those people who say
“Oh how do you live? My heart goes out for you!”
Meanwhile, they throw litter on the sidewalk.
They don’t see I see too much.
So much I can’t process it all.
So much, it can be maddening.
I ask myself “Why does someone like me belong in the world?”
Then, I wonder where the atoms making proton collisions came from to expand into a reality where I am writing this line in the sunshine at this Bellevue, PA latitude and longitude park.
And children… my ignorance bore them out of intentions from love.
Where do they belong? With me? With a wholesome family?
Just because I’m biologically their mother, does that really mean I’m the best person to care for them?
See too much. Feel too much.
Wish someone would hold me.
No one is there.
Why do I even desire a mate?
Is it because I remember some meek semblance of love with a man at one time which I yearn to replicate? Was that even real?
What is this? Ink. Paper. A pen. A hand. A sound. Lines. The outdoors. Existence becoming memory as these letters are written.
And you think you have your problems…
I just don’t know how to process life,
which may be my only problem…
unless this is my way of life process…