Dear mankind

Dear humanity.



How have you been? I saw you quite a lot today, you mostly didn’t notice me, a few times we did make mutual eye contact, we had pleasant conversations, unpleasant conversations, even silent conversations. I enjoyed some, I hated others.

I like to think you and I are good friends, that I will be there for you and you’ll be there for me, at least some of the times. Lately I’ve wondered why we ever became friends, you’re bipolar, maniac depressive, one minute I’m talking to a happy person the next face I see is sad. you hurt me sometimes, and I hurt you. Ie almost never make it better, we just get up and go on, with no change, no difference to be seen.

I’ve often wondered why your so different from one minute to the next, and one place to the next, it seems even the same faces change too fast to be understood. it makes me sad, I feel like the faces might be more important then the whole sometimes, sometimes not. Your always one third asleep, never the same third though, not from a planks time to the next, you change to fast for me to keep up. Sometimes I think I’ll slip and be left behind, never to see the next change, sometimes I want to fall. You always keep tight hold of me though, never the same hand or pair of eyes to hold on to, or try to get away from. Even when I can’t wait for my freedom, you tell me that I WILL have it. that I’ll be free to be under someones claws, or out of them as I choose.

Sometimes I act up, even rebel against the people I want to be under, my anger at the people who control me can boil over, I’m not rebellious by nature. but my nature is so hated that if I don’t rebel, I’ll have to hide, and hiding has come close to killing me. sometimes I have the urge to fight, to hit everyone between me and a civil life, to be so free that by lungs will burst,  other times I want to craw away, find some one with eyes for a runaway, (theirs a poem in that for sure) and to prove i am worthy of that gift. To trade my work for my freedom, like a boy of 12 swabbing decks down the Mississippi river, all to be free of civility, to find comfort in labor for my own cause.

I guess the point is that I don’t want to say I’m sorry to you, because I’m not really, I know that if a better source was given to me, I would be better.I’m not sorry for being like I am, that’s not my fault, but I know I’ve done you wrong, in one way or another, or rather, there is good I have not done good for you, and I think that may be worse yet. I want to give according to my ability’s, but how can I with no place to run for refuge, no safe house for my soul, my dreams are my escape, and they taunt me with even more faces.

in broad respect, and specific submission





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