I'm not like anyone
you might know
there may not have been a mold
its not false pride
nor terminal unique-ness
that I'm infected with
the world is a large place
and I spent the early portion of my life
living under circumstances
beyond my control
children cannot select their parents
I had to embrace my
different-ness to survive
I'd no other choice
persist
or dive down a hole
At eight I began to find
solace in running away
I'd load up my bike
and head to the winding river's edge
south of town
I didn't like night sounds
nor the dark
still it was the preferable
alternative
I chose to leave
when I felt I had no other
choice
otherwise
I knew
I could be obliterated
or maybe
I'd explode
It was better to be lost
afraid in the dark
and in the late morning
to lay exhausted in the
hot noon-day sun
screaming at the clouds
when I wanted to
I was purified
living through my fear--
and knowing without any doubts
I could make it
through almost anything
on my own
lying about being an orphan
was closer to the truth
than fiction
and there was no reason
to rue the lie
today at sixty
I face the same challenges
again I am alone
Any illusion of having my real original family
is long gone
it was a fiction
an impossilbe ideal
like a sitcom on t.v.
I was no longer some little child
who clung to the hope
of being considered
acceptable
enough
to be loved
its odd
isn't it
how sixty can be grown-up
in years
but somehow
not enough time has passed
to drown the past
how it comes back to me
when I close my eyes
in dreams
with the dead
and half-living murmuring into my
shriveled ears
and even now..
in the morning when I wake
I have to vigorously shake the ghosts from
my head
since, to them
I am dead
I am dead
morning can be so cold.
legal copyright for this poem/rant 11:49 PM PST Oct 8 2020 time/date stamped
and also for this legally copyrighted and registered site title
Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World
and also for this Author/Poet Melissa A. Howells
