Sitting outside in the South. Writing on the street in a small town. What I’m doing looks interesting. You might see. I’m obviously entertained by my own thoughts. I’ve been able to concentrate because I’m afraid to look up.
More often than not, sitting outside on the street, people walking by, it’s not judgment I’m getting. Its interest. More often for me it’s judgement.
This is what a writer reads. Sigmund Freud, Shel Silverstein. Friends til the end of distress. Look! A born artist, a judgment catcher, a belonger to those who belong. If I sit here making the coffeehouse look good any longer, shove me in the shallow hot water. I get up to walk.
Stereotypes are like noise in the eyes. In knowing a human, you’ll be surprised. We’re not all good nor all bad. Our level of education, our race, bank account and gender can give to us. But down we all go again if we believe who told lies. That’s why I look forward to getting older, and that’s a lucky thing too, because we do. The age of maturity is actually more vulnerable, because you’ve lived long enough to see through to it that there’s less to hold onto. That’s why believers believe so strong. Because growth is so painful, but it’s what we must do.
They bully me. I find an outlet for my anger. I’m juiced up. But I gotta sit.
How do we know we are not listening to silence? Sounds are a call out for silence. Like a dog barking to alert us of something noisy and unusual, like a car horn trumpeting for attention and order, like a baby crying for comfort…their signal an attempt at peace.
If you’re from Hell, are you protected? The forces see you as formidable, your demise imminent, stirring up the sleeping good to action.
Why do I feel less than dignity?
Empathy is Poetry 