a dictionary definition:
adjective: *conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural.
noun: the average or mean; the standard or type.
non-dictionary synonyms: to fit in; to not be different

                                  I just want(need)(crave)a little bit of normal
                                       just a little bit of remembrance; acceptance

I want to be them:
                       the little boy who's always at the playground after 3, everyday,
                       the lady who comes by to feed the ducks every Saturday,
                       the man who sits watching the trains pass for an hour come 9,
                       the girl who jogs past me every morning at 6:57,

the kind of normal you never actually know but still remember in passing.


I want to be this:
                       to not have people's minds made up the moment they see me,
(because the color of my skin, hair, and eyes is not all that I am)
                       to not have hide myself from people I love,
(not because I doubt their acceptance, but because I don't doubt their acceptance could get them hurt in the long run)
                       to hate English grammar because it's grammar and not because it's English grammar,
(because hating grammar is one thing, being unable to completely grasp the grammar of your second language is another, and not understanding grammar of a second language that should have been (that people mistake for) your first, is another matter entirely)

the kind of normal that lets you be considered as normal, instead of the different that is normal to me.

  
I don't need your pity, or
                      your fake attempts at friendliness, or
                      you swinging me along.
                  
                                        I just want a moment of belonging
                                                  a moment of normal
                        and then it can all go back to being the different I'm used to.

Everything thing is spinning, round and round and blurring into nothingness -

(except it's not, feet planted firmly on the ground and

the world is not supposed to be this way)

Blackness. Punctured by white and broken into pixels -

(a European painting in dots and dashes and absence of color and

there were shapes, before, of people, distinct lines drawn)

Swaying. Back and forth, little enough to avoid notice -

(hand reaching out, palm against wall, cold and

if I faint to the floor perhaps this will break my fall)

Sound is petering out, growing softer and softer into the distance -

(everything is a dull thrum, world dissolving and dissipating around me and

suppose I will have to work out the instructions on my own)

Shaking. Shivering, really, and it is not even chilly -

(boiling hot, sweat and heat suddenly overwhelming and

will they notice me then, when the cup shatters into a million pieces from trembling hands)


Breathing is hard.

(heart is thumping, surely it will give out soon, nothing is supposed to be this fast and

breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out. breathe in. breathe out.)


The world is normal, again -

(there is color. noise. people. air, in large quantities. no swaying and shaking and spinning and

one day it will fail to come back.)

When was the last time
I felt a raving hunger for life?
When had I but an eternity in moments,
on the edge of something vastly different?

How was it me and not you
who staked her soul high
on rolling hills of green,
took long draughts to savour, to condense
the weight of the world into one precious drink,

cup the shortest days in her palm and release them,
for her thoughts to balloon into the wild?

The delectable now—
ripe as berries for plucking in winter,
and all things, like music
must peter
into silence.

So I suppose my question to you
is not concerned with
the stack of newly-minted green in your pocket,
nor the fleet of shiny cars, but
your pure self, simply being.
It’s prodding the heart,
a tiny critter fluttering with wings, wondering:

when will you ever get a second chance at this—
all this storm
and inexplicable happiness—

or will you
go hunting for things,
whirling at mere traces
of power in your name—

or will you turn around
only to find a life
or a lie,
staring back wide-eyed
in endless shame?

© BT

Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near-Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.