I can’t always offer my other cheek
for you to have some sad surface to slap
I don’t have to.
                            Maybe because I’m not
your holy friend, and I don’t have to be
what people set -
                                someone or somebody
in this planet where paper roses bloom
inside plastic boxes.

I don’t think that I’ll throw away to you
a piece of bread, a slice of precious loaf
in return for that hard stone you did cast.
I don’t have to.
                             Maybe because I’m not
your haloed friend, and I don’t have to be
what people set -
                                standards, morals decreed.
Rigid squares, straight lines drawn.
                                                                Old World pretends
to be modern.
                          And . . . . . accommodating.

Oh no! It’s not. It’s not!
                                           The limits, too narrow,
define the soul,
                            poison minds,
                                                      choke the heart.

Life’s lessons
                         safeguard
                                            the survivor . . .

The journey’s still long
                                          along this
                                                             lonely road.