450. Villains

In the story of my life,

You are the villains;

The plotters. The schemers. The bringers of strife.

You praise your heroism,

In dealing with me,

While pointing out flaws and enacting schisms.

You would only have loved me,

If I’d have earned it;

For you praise the motto: “Nothing is for free”.

You hold out expectant hands,

Awaiting some gold.

Oh, how is it not one of you understands?

I shouldn’t need earn the right,

To be loved like you.

Existing does not need a permit you write.

I’m sure you’d act shocked to find,

You’re drowning in sins.

Yet, of course you will all pay no nevermind.

After all, you are the villains.

K. Aldaya, 7/13/18

Picture: https://www.pexels.com/photo/attractive-beautiful-beauty-black-and-white-594421/

446. Beyond Reach

flower-reaching-beauty-pink-hand-trees-nature-beautiful-relaxing-welness-feng-shui-wallpaper-galleries

I wonder if ’twere better to be blind?

For we see beauty ne’er to be touched,

And human souls ne’er to be reached.

Why?….Oh why, is existence so unkind?

To grant us sight of what will not be.

To pull back what dangles before us;

As we reach with all of our might.

I wonder if ’twere better not to see,

That which is beyond our reach?

K. Aldaya, 6/22/18

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441. PTSD

The world is so busying telling me,

How I should feel and who I should be,

That it’s never, even once, stopped to think,

Whether I’m not exactly who I’m meant to be.

Maybe I will never be like you.

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe asking me to be something else,

Is the reason I can’t get through.

Maybe I would be okay,

If the world accepted what’s different.

Though, no matter how accepting it claims to be,

Some of us leave too much of an imprint.

We make a mess. Stand out too much.

Cops trail us and build up a case.

“It’s odd you were at the crime scene,

Even odder that your prints were all over the place!

Guilty by association, my child.

You’re guilty for showing-up: time and again.

You’re a victim, but perhaps an accomplice as well.

Did you not know it would drive you insane?

Now you are just as responsible.

Only criminals return to the crime!

You could have been normal…like us,

Instead, you’ve wasted this courts precious time.”

Yet, if we may speak to this court, sir.

We feel guilty and shameful each day,…

That we haven’t moved on…couldn’t move on…

And fell down, and apart, and astray.

We didn’t know how. We still don’t know now,

How to escape from that place,

Though if we could one day do so,

As you’ve stated, we’ve already left our trace;

A trace of guilt. A trace of our crimes,…

Of guilt by association.

No matter what we may say to these crimes,

The world will ne’er forgive the implication.

The implication that we are criminals.

That not being like you. Not living like you,

Is a bloody-bed of our own making;

For there’s only acceptance for crimes you live through,

But ones which stay, fester, and remain,

Which turn us wretched, and drive us insane,

Are the ones which society won’t accept.

And refuse to consider,…o’erlooking the brain.

Yes, the world is so busy telling me,

How I should feel and who I should be,

Yet has it ever wondered why we’re not free,

To be who life has made us to be?

No, I am not like you or them,

And no, I will never be in the end;

Though just because I am different,

Must I be rejected ’til the end?

Placed up on trial again, and again to defend…

Why I am the way I am?

I’m a lifetime of sounds and sights you can’t see.

Yet, men like to spurn what they don’t understand,

And charge for the crime of PTSD.

K. Aldaya, 5/23/18

Picture: By: Bill Oxford on Unsplash; https://unsplash.com/photos/OXGhu60NwxU

440. Presence

We reach out for purpose,

Cutting through time like a knife.

Surveying each step with elation,

As if God’s creating life.

Are we more than rotting thoughts,

And orbiting electrons in atoms?

If I stand still or take one more step,

Will it really change any outcomes?

I want to believe in more than this.

In more than my petty musings.

Yet, despite my wish for my words to remain,

I can’t cease their death by refusing.

If I write, or walk, or take a step,

Or if I choose to protest.

There will still be something there to lose,

Whether idle or over-obsessed.

So, I reach out for purpose,

Whether it cuts me in it’s course;

For despite my ruminations,

Presence is an unstoppable force.

K. Aldaya, 5/22/18

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439. Lost

I’m lost inside.

Won’t someone find me?

In the echoes of time,

I wander in effigy,

Of who I was long before,…

The hallways shifted;

And I was ne’er able to find,

One crack through which light sifted.

I’m here looking,

For some way to escape fate.

Is anyone searching? Has anyone noticed,…

That the hour has become late?

And I have not been there with you.

My eyes, they make no sound,

Yet if you’d have truly looked at me,

You’d have seen I’m not around.

For whispers resound through the tears and years:

“I am still not found”.

K. Aldaya, 5/2/18

Picture: http://sfwallpaper.com/image-post/7520-lonely-images-14.jpg.html