Crafty Child

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.

Outcasts

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.