Updated: May 24
I’ve always been in the way. At home, at school, at play. I don’t recall anyone ever doing or saying so, but I knew that much to be true about me.
They didn’t like me but they didn’t hate me either. They being anyone else in this which is my world. The children that I would have called friend. The people to whom I was related, both immediate and distant.
The people who inhabited my thoughts as I was penning my poems. The ones who, only in my own mind, loved me, hurt me, tore my heart out and then who, with me, dispensed.
The fellow musicians in band who surrounded me as I marched along city streets. They all had names but I don’t remember what those were.
Choir singers, sports team members, students and teachers, the people with whom I danced.
The visions of those who swayed and twirled and reached their hands toward beauty and the patience and grace of nature and the heart of one who went always unnoticed.
Who am I who was nothing more than the things which mattered not, ever?
I mattered not.
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