Poem: The Likes of Me

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The Likes of Me

I am not made for rows,
for neatly stacked blocks,
for monochrome walls.

Neither round or square,
I fit in few holes without
a bit of banging or shaving of the edges.

My colors are too bright,
an odd thing for a man
once afraid of color itself,

who spent his time hiding,
in blending in,
being careful not to be seen,

living only
where it was safe.

Wars of attrition either destroy
or toughen, and even someone like me,
carefully in the shadows

is scarred,
wounded, often
left for dead,
another statistic to blend in with the rest.

And those that survive?
Those like me?
We hide
or we don’t.
We cower,
or we insist on being seen,
no longer willing
to be ignored,
no longer willing
to disappear.

We dance.
We sing.
We pray and bleed in public.
We refuse
to go away.

So pardon me if I do not disappear.
I am having too good a time in my oddness,
inappropriate and bright,
uncomfortable and insistent
that there is a place in this world
for the likes of me.

About this poem

No explanations on this one, I am afraid. It covers so much of my past and my belief system (which is centered on acceptance.) that my little paragraph at the end of the poem would turn into an exegesis of both my life and my faith.

I’d bore you to death, I am sure.

So just enjoy it (or not). See yourself (or not). And be well.

Tom

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