What's the point of healing if those who inspired change won't feel it?

I'm just supposed to be better for someone else?

Like moving a mountain to pave a path,
Connecting two cities at last
Just to keep walking on without even looking back?

But that's the way it goes
I suppose

I placed you upon my highest shelf,
Where no one ever sat before,
My prized possession, the collectable
I’d always been yearning for.

All my toys end up broken or lost,
A fate that eats me alive,
But you- I was determined not to break,
So I kept you out of these hands of mine.

I adored you from a distance,
Too scared to get too close,
You were lonely on that shelf,
To be played with, you wanted most.

My hands clumsy, your heart so fragile,
A dangerous game we played,
Measuring my worth around your presence-
If you looked fine, then I was okay.

But looks have always been deceiving,
It doesn’t mean things were smooth,
My sweet trophied, prized companion
Just wanted me to hold him too.

Slowly, I became bolder,
Taking you down from that shelf,
And for a while, it was heaven,
But soon enough, we needed help.

You were fragile, and I was clumsy,
We know how this story ends-
I was angry, you were gentle…
I should have never held you in my hands.

They always think I'm dumb
That I don't understand,
I don't know what I'm talking about- I don't have a plan
I ask questions if I don't have a clue, so why is it assumed I don't know what to do?
I'm educated, I always got good grades
Why does everyone treat me like I live in a daze?
They double check me- every word that leaves my mouth, I'm never met with equal standing only others doubts

Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden


no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…


that when
a poem,
even a  new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time

thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity

a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell

(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)