449. I Say Too Much. I Say Too Little.

loud

I say too much.

I say too little.

I never say what’s right;

Walking the line with all my might.

I say too little.

I say too much.

I never say enough;

Acting as strong and playing tough.

I say too much.

I say too little.

I never say what’s heard.

Truth is oft’ an offensive word.

I say too little.

I say too much.

I never say what’s good;

Hiding ‘neath social-conduct’s hood.

I say too much.

I say too little.

I never say what’s apt;

‘Tween truth and lies, I am trapped.

I say too little.

I say too much.

I never say my piece,

For if I speak my pains’ increase.

I say too much.

I say too little.

I never say what’s right.

Loud or silent, I climb the height…

To the middle……………………………………………..of nowhere.

K. Aldaya, 7/11/18

Picture: http://sturgispubliclibrary.blogspot.com/2018/03/toddler-story-time-loud-and-quiet.html

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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

425. Waiting

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I…I see you there.

Why can’t you see me?

I place my hand upon the glass;

Yet, your hand never reaches out to me…

Nor sees beyond reflection.

I…I see you there.

Far away, though still,

I wonder what it’s like to live,

On the other side of this windowsill.

My hand presses ‘gainst the glass…

…Waiting…………..

………Waiting………………….

K. Aldaya, 1/30/18

Picture: Original Source Unknown; http://wisgoon.com/pin/17546199/#submit_comment

421. Misunderstood

You’ll never understand. I know.

It’s just the way it is.

You’ll never understand how I feel,

And I’m glad. It is what it is.

You’ll never understand why I,

Am the way I am.

You’ll always see me as less than you;

And it’s okay. I am what I am.

You’ll never understand, yet still,

I wish you’d at least try;

Though I don’t blame you for not wanting to,

Life is short and too soon we die.

You’ll never understand, my dear,

How much I wish to be…

Free from the blueprints of memory.

Wave goodbye. What will be, will be.

K. Aldaya, 1/4/18

393. Rash Acuity

You speak fast and spew your words,

All over the place.

Without care you spread your thoughts,

Devoid of depth or grace;

Then look at me with judging eyes,

Awaiting swift reply,

To signify my intelligence,

Based on how quickly my words fly.

Pardon me, while I contemplate,

On how little time you take,

To make absolute assumptions,

And trust the conclusions you make.

I am not that sure of myself,

I’m afraid that it is true.

I always question everything,

And ponder hard and long when I do.

So if you’re awaiting fast reply,

Don’t bother waiting around.

I don’t really care if you think me daft,

When you can’t see my need to expound.

Leave me alone with my thoughts,

And I’ll think until I’m weary.

For there are no absolutes to me,

Only the most plausible theory.

Please take your judgments elsewhere,

There are far better things to do,

Then converse with someone so shallow,

As to judge as rashly as you do.

K. Aldaya, 4/24/17

348. Drowning on the Surface

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How is it the more I speak,

The more I feel misunderstood?

What’s the point of speaking,

When it never does me any good?

Why do I even bother,

What can be said or done?

No one wants deep relationships,

And I’m tired of every shallow one.

I have no energy to waste,

On trivial conversations.

There’s no worth for me in social conventions.

I’d rather dwell on inner contemplations.

I wish I didn’t have to speak,

When there’s no point to anyway.

No one listens or understands,

Or cares to try as they may…

To know another soul,

And connect beyond the skin.

It hurts too much to try again,

Just to drown once more in the skin.

K. Aldaya, 4/14/16

Picture: Photo from Google; Originally from Video: http://www.shutterstock.com/video/clip-9892391-stock-footage-lonely-girl-at-rain-looks-at-dirty-forest-pond-worried-girl-sitting-with-hands-over-head-stares-to.html