by Gabriella Duncan
Will you poke
me with
a stick
when I
am dead,
as I lay
like the cattle,
on,
the frozen field,
yet still warm,
on the
hard
cold
ground
of winter?
While living,
with constant
reminders in
‘there is
no choice’,
while others
convince
themselves
there are,
and only need
begging to get
them.
Privileged,
get healthy
choices,
the lessors,
get what
others pass
on.
Pondering,
these things,
while watching
those,
watching
others, struggle.
This is a gift,
so it is said.
Invited to be
the observer,
of struggle,
struggles within,
struggles without,
all struggles,
pain is pain.
But we categorize,
ostracize and
alienate the poor,
ignore the less
than and are
unaware.
All, while knowing,
it may be the,
last time one
remembers
being warm,
as the observing
others, walk
away or stare
in silence.
All because,
‘saving themselves’,
from toxic people,
has become a dinner
conversation
cliche or vogue.
Sometimes,
there are no
choices,
but rather,
a series of,
chutes and ladders,
guides and prompts,
for the moment
in which stuck ness,
of the human soul,
suddenly renders
that soul partially
unconscious,
all while
having the
consciousness
to witness and
still ignore
its presence.
Those moments
of, now,
those guides,
will not be,
as altruistic as
the personal
souls of some.
Who’s ego is it?
Its devastating.
The contrast of
witnessing various
stages of
suffering souls,
is nothing less
than,
devastating.
White privilege
therapy can’t help,
spiritual advisors,
avoid in fear,
or expected payment.
Some will name
favorite
assumptions,
like, pride,
not
understanding
that when
adulthood,
begins in young
souls who loose
their parents at
early ages, no matter
the reason, the result
is the same.
Some are
beautifully defined,
because, they had
no one to do so.
This on its own,
teaches us the
validity and
contrast of
a uniformed,
organized
form of privilege.
The past reflects
upon the future
and its reflection
is perpetually
cruel for rare
and unique
souls.
Built in varied,
patterns of people,
is, only knowing,
to be your best
self,
this brings
ego to light.
Some seem to
be put off,
and cannot,
tolerate,
self,
sufficiency
and suffering
in the same soul,
and constantly,
expect you to
be broken.
What if you aren’t,
yet?
What if you became
a statistic?
Sometimes
the, I AM
just, IS,
self sufficiency,
waiting on the
altruistic touch.
Waiting for the
right choice and
the right time,
for the truly
altruistic hand,
that,
holds a gaze,
for those who
wish to see the
face of the divine,
in the ones who
claim
to have it most.
Choices,
are not
choices,
when all you
can
compare them
to is,
which way
one would
rather die.
You must log in to post a comment.