Bright-eyed young girl, Curious and crafty, Let’s start a project and learn to crochet. Tiring quickly, She abandoned the lesson. She couldn’t see past the first stitch- Obsessed with chains, with growing taller, The neverending line of connection So easily unfurled. Chains, chains, chains. Chains everywhere and every day. Quickly and carefully created by this crafty girl And unraveled even faster, The impermanence of childhood Displayed through her repetitive ritual. She lost interest as quickly As any other once-inspired child, And many years without crocheted chains passed Before a spark of inspiration woke her from her daze. Timid hands picked up threadbare yarn, dusted with age. Fingers moved as if possessed, Creating chains came so easily And her inner child was elated by the familiarity Of her once daily routine. The desire to unwind, to unfurl Pulled so strong within her, But the necessity To create, to give life, to build something that matters Overcame all else. She kept making chains. She made chains and then kept working. She kept building on the foundation To create something strong Something useful Something beautiful for herself. For herself, she kept creating.
Cast out from society
For trying to find who we want to be
An outsider is all they see
When they look at you and me.
They only see what they want us to be,
Our differences, they won’t believe.
Our independence set us free
Cast us away from society
So we can be who we are and will always be.
A Generous Offer
A generous offer- but for who?
Is it for me, or is it for you?
“I’m sorry, I cannot go” should suffice
But what shall I saw when you ask me thrice?
You see, though we live side by side
You and I do not walk the same stride
I walk to my own self-satisfied beat
While you walk as you suck on your cult-like hive-minded teat
As you tell me why you’re right and I’m wrong
But it seems like you were wrong all along
Because you are not the rule-maker, decider or king
For maybe if you were, it might mean something
But since you’re not, when you speak, it is quiet
I don’t hear a thing, but keep talking- it’s a riot
To think that you’ll never truly know
What’s up above you or even down below
For there’s no room for your high-horse where I’m sure you’d like to be
And I’m sorry we won’t be in the same place for you to see
That the only “right” way is the one that’s truly your own
But maybe when I’m in Heaven, I’ll throw you a bone.