Alone, cold, and mislead
is what it feels like to be unwanted.
After a while the feelings are accepted,well actually any feeling.
Maybe this was planned maybe if I keep going I will see a light.
Through this darkness I will come.
Feelings of acceptance creep in, slowly, but they still come.
Laughter seems so far away, like it is foreign where I am.
Where is that I ask? Why does it even matter because I know what darkness feels like.
I know what being unwanted feels like.
Because no one can help me now. Now that I know what it feels like and what it means.
Now I know what it means to be
Thrown back, like unclean
Not even as a second look,
Features great the cold ground,
Feeling more in this moment
Of contact, than in life
Feelings upon show, not opening
That emotion that shows,
I have hands out, as if trying to cup
Of others, not wanting to go back,
"I will not look back"
They shut that door, and ended it.
A new harder chapter in my
Walk of life, But the ground is
But it is upon this I now rest a
Protection of self,
For predators of the night greet darkness
I hope that a new day awakens my eyes,
For I am among many,
Vacant emotion upon many faces
As if the world has won over them,
I just wish to open my eyes and greet a new day
I am among many unwanted but still wish life.
I am like hidden verses of unwanted poetry
like blots and blotches and ink stains
and out of focus photos
nobody really takes a closer look if the first glance doesn't grab you
I don't have slick packaging
at best it bears the "used but adequate" label
there are tricks that I just find too much trouble
like photographing food with varnish and toothpicks holding pearl onions up perkily
my verses may be uninteresting to some
like a cardboard box or a plain white sheet
but there is a castle
or a rocket ship ready to burst out in the right hands
that cardboard box can take you
can make you
verses of unwanted poetry
for words are social creatures and move about together
and a plain sheet languorously rolls out offering itself to be
penned scrawled splashed across
smuggled out of the recycling bin and nailed onto a wall
and so becomes
as a work of art
and I am too
a work of art in the making
writing hidden verses of unwanted poetry in a language that I am creating as I go
Take down the names of the unwanted
Make sure that I'm on the list
As rain pours down their faces
Remember that we exist
The sound of the marching footsteps
The death of an innocent man
Remembrance of what it once was
The times when it began