I have lived on this earth with them,
but not apart of them.
It is a story I have not written.
( whoever ‘I’ is )
would not write a story such as this.
I am them and they are me,
and yet there is a silence so loud in the air
that feeds on my soul,
and asks me to learn to be happy
despite of it all.
and I see they would love
if they would stop
for a moment
There is a beautiful fire in the belly of them.
A pure, raging storm
meant for the rising of their beautiful day.
But they use it to fight.
To stay lost in childhood gone by
and I resist it.
I resist the binds their stories have gathered,
knowing I am not a story of shame, fear, or hate.
I try to hold them, I try to wait.
And yet, perhaps I might try
to fall into the ocean of it all
that I am just one of many waves
surging differently to the rest.