who I am,
is not what I do,
I am not old,
but I am old enough,
                                  to know better, whoever she/he/it is,
what I do,
is using my senses,
I am not unkind
but I am that kinda shy type,
                                                not a wall flower, but bring in the poeple and you won't find me,
you can read in silence,
you can read aloud,
you can cho[p and mince
words or absorb it all like a sponge,

maybe one day, someday,
I will tell you who I am, no I am not famous, I am not Epic,
I doubt most truths and the ones I don't, I am still trying to
stand
under
are you sure you read that right?

Humour has helped me survive to everyone else's bane,
dysthymia is to be a temporary curse, so far four decades,
does not seem in the temporal, to me,
my glass has a crack and it is always have empty for what I
don't have, I make up in humour, not jokes (they are for the mean)

but enough of me, for this is about poetry,
how IT saves little bits of sanity, watch the woe in me,
(I use that line alot you see)
why so transparent, why so vulnerable,
this is just scratching the surface,
but enough of me,
for this is about empty gardens with rusty gates,
barn with no roof and an appetite to sate.
for if a person is a goof, sure there are few who relate,
"for you will see more foolish things than these" to
paraphrase a fool before the Lord, someone whose heart was adored,
for it was always after God.

There is much in a life the strife, the pain, soap and hot water
does not take away or wash it down the drain, or the trouble river
which has a bridge built on pillars of, naivete and emotions, in that river,
with the water riding high showing portholes of watery eyes in tear ducts,
that run freely, because they were born free, we are all prejudiced by birth
until we become self-aware and accept what value all humans are worth,
at par.


©DWE022014