442. Into the Sea

Once upon a time there were two men born out at sea,

And though began on different ships; Each stared down their destiny.

As sailors are want to do, by time, or just sore luck,

They fell into the churning sea when a raging storm had struck.

They both knew of the Isle nearby. All the sailors knew it well.

The Isle where they were headed, ‘fore their ships sank ‘neath the swell.

The Isle was where wealthy men built mansions out of gold,

And lived in luxury and peace; Ah, truly a sight to behold!

If only they could reach that place. They knew life would be grand.

They looked at the stars that night, and oriented themselves toward land.

One man had a mile to swim. The other: nine miles more;

Though both set off with conviction, to live and reach that shore.

The first man soon made it there, and lived until old age.

He wrote books, and sculpted art; And his story is now ‘all the rage’.

The second man: he drowned at sea, less than a mile from shore.

He’d fought hard and long for those nine miles,…likely harder then any man before.

Yet sailors tell his morose tale over drinks and platitudes;

Laughing at his misfortune with disparaging attitudes.

“What’s the meaning of success? What does it mean to fail?”,

One man asked as he sat down to converse o’er another round of ale.

“You may say the first man is clearly the success.

For he made it to the Isle, and lived in grandeur and excess.

Yet, the first man only swam one mile….so is success really the case?

Is success the result of outcomes, or is it more about the race?

For I wonder why the second man, who swam for eight miles more,

And didn’t give up for those nine miles, is a failure for not reaching shore?

He may have never reached the Isle. He may have died too young.

Howe’er he lived and fought far longer, then that man on societies’ tongue.

The man who swam the further…who fought until his last,…

Is he not the man who succeeded the most?

For in the end, all men’s ‘die are cast’…

Into the sea.”

K. Aldaya, 6/9/18

Picture: Artist:? http://picturefordesktop.com/stormy-sea-images-desktop-wallpaper/

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441. PTSD

The world is so busying telling me,

How I should feel and who I should be,

That it’s never, even once, stopped to think,

Whether I’m not exactly who I’m meant to be.

Maybe I will never be like you.

Maybe I’m not supposed to.

Maybe asking me to be something else,

Is the reason I can’t get through.

Maybe I would be okay,

If the world accepted what’s different.

Though, no matter how accepting it claims to be,

Some of us leave too much of an imprint.

We make a mess. Stand out too much.

Cops trail us and build up a case.

“It’s odd you were at the crime scene,

Even odder that your prints were all over the place!

Guilty by association, my child.

You’re guilty for showing-up: time and again.

You’re a victim, but perhaps an accomplice as well.

Did you not know it would drive you insane?

Now you are just as responsible.

Only criminals return to the crime!

You could have been normal…like us,

Instead, you’ve wasted this courts precious time.”

Yet, if we may speak to this court, sir.

We feel guilty and shameful each day,…

That we haven’t moved on…couldn’t move on…

And fell down, and apart, and astray.

We didn’t know how. We still don’t know now,

How to escape from that place,

Though if we could one day do so,

As you’ve stated, we’ve already left our trace;

A trace of guilt. A trace of our crimes,…

Of guilt by association.

No matter what we may say to these crimes,

The world will ne’er forgive the implication.

The implication that we are criminals.

That not being like you. Not living like you,

Is a bloody-bed of our own making;

For there’s only acceptance for crimes you live through,

But ones which stay, fester, and remain,

Which turn us wretched, and drive us insane,

Are the ones which society won’t accept.

And refuse to consider,…o’erlooking the brain.

Yes, the world is so busy telling me,

How I should feel and who I should be,

Yet has it ever wondered why we’re not free,

To be who life has made us to be?

No, I am not like you or them,

And no, I will never be in the end;

Though just because I am different,

Must I be rejected ’til the end?

Placed up on trial again, and again to defend…

Why I am the why I am?

I’m a lifetime of sounds and sights you can’t see.

Yet, men like to spurn what they don’t understand,

And charge for the crime of PTSD.

K. Aldaya, 5/23/18

440. Presence

We reach out for purpose,

Cutting through time like a knife.

Surveying each step with elation,

As if God’s creating life.

Are we more than rotting thoughts,

And orbiting electrons in atoms?

If I stand still or take one more step,

Will it really change any outcomes?

I want to believe in more than this.

In more than my petty musings.

Yet, despite my wish for my words to remain,

I can’t cease their death by refusing.

If I write, or walk, or take a step,

Or if I choose to protest.

There will still be something there to lose,

Whether idle or over-obsessed.

So, I reach out for purpose,

Whether it cuts me in it’s course;

For despite my ruminations,

Presence is an unstoppable force.

K. Aldaya, 5/22/18

Picture: Original Source Unknown; http://keywordsuggest.org/gallery/129704.html

439. Lost

I’m lost inside.

Won’t someone find me?

In the echoes of time,

I wander in effigy,

Of who I was long before,…

The hallways shifted;

And I was ne’er able to find,

One crack through which light sifted.

I’m here looking,

For some way to escape fate.

Is anyone searching? Has anyone noticed,…

That the hour has become late?

And I have not been there with you.

My eyes, they make no sound,

Yet if you’d have truly looked at me,

You’d have seen I’m not around.

For whispers resound through the tears and years:

“I am still not found”.

K. Aldaya, 5/2/18

Picture: http://sfwallpaper.com/image-post/7520-lonely-images-14.jpg.html