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Poem: Alone am I. (as a response to was: FB: Well Met and Returned)

Hi,

"And its when people think that they are alone that they become very
vulnerable."

I totally agree with you on this Sam.  I ended up writing a poem in response to this statement.

Huh

~~~~

Alone am I.

"And its when people think that they are alone that they become very
vulnerable."

I totally agree with you on this.
But you know what, it's funny. 
Aloneness happens in funny places. 
It's hard to identify clearly why. 
I find that there are times that I am accepted, and yet I feel alone. 

I find that I cannot speak or say my thoughts; trapped in the mire which is me.
 There are many ways to be alone. 
I feel as if I've had the privilege of exploring them all. 

Unique is what I am.  Different. 
Find me some soil which I might claim as my own.
I have found none yet to call my own.

I know that there is a place where I might simply be me,
Where I might allow myself to accept myself. 
That is the toughest lesson of all for me. 

I know that to accept one's self is supposed to be natural;
But it's not.  Not for me anyways.
I observe me carefully, looking for flaws, reason, or rhyme.
I find nothing significant.  Nothing to explain why I am me.
Nothing to tell me how to fit into the world about me.

I am an alien born to sane peoples.  Or maybe crazy peoples.
It doesn't much matter to me, sane or not.
It's what I've got.

Intersections of rules.  Contradictions.  Hypocrisies.
Right and wrong blurred into a jumble of words and actions.
I see nothing except kindness and cruelty.  I see only these two clearly.
There are many things that I do not know,
But these two things -- kindnesss and cruelty,
I know.
They are constant on my landscape of many changes.

Years of schooling spent learning and changing to fit ways taught.
I find that much is of little real consequence.
Most is without form or reason.
Things merely exist.
I don't care.
I try to believe that I don't care and sometimes it is true,
and that scares me too.

Are unfeeling uncaring monsters dangerous beasts of prey?
I fathom little except that I feel not at this moment.
I know that interaction is what keeps a poor fool like me sane.

Interaction.  Interaction.  Interaction.
Silly little words.  Meaning nothing alone.
I pick them up, breathe life into them;
Like deflated beach balls, air creates their form.

Clinical words surround.
Emotions clouded, hidden from me.
Without emotions, am I a little more than a beast of intellect?
My burdens, my backpacks filled with books, a life of worthless actions;
My mind empty of reason or understanding,
Struggles to understand the purpose of all.

I plug and chug through one problem then the next.
There is no purpose here.  I know this now without a doubt.
Some believe that life is meant to be enjoyed.
Others believe that life is meant to be experienced.
I believe that I must be me.  I'm not sure how yet. 
I don't know me yet. 

Emotions are foreign to me. 
They are but mere visitors in the land of me.
They stay temporarily.  They parade about.  They gawk at me.
I shoo them out.  Not now please.  No time for empty emotions.
I think the emotions out. 
Controlling body functions, controlling reactions,
I release tensions without feeling much of anything. 

I hurry along in useless tasks.  Finishing barely in time for those above me.
I hurry to and fro finding meaning and purpose not hidden anywhere.
Perhaps my eyes are broken and religion should save me from all. 
Horse feathers! 
Religion takes the edge off of fear,
But doesn't help me enough to make me whole.

What purpose is there in hurry, in life, in love, in all?
There must be a purpose here.  There must.
I struggle, stumble, strive, and fall.
I see no point to it all.

Some laugh at my expression that life feels empty.
Others wonder how a person with so much potential can feel like a failure.
I wonder at the naivity of all. 
I am a fool who knows little; yet sees quite clearly that I am not enough,
That I have not done enough yet,
That I have failed to help those that I desired to help,
That I have failed those that I dreamed of helping.

Yes, a foolish child's dreams, shattered and broken,
They lay mourning among the detritus of life. 

A child's bright voice matured to a high clear one. 

How different am I now?  Am I yet the same?

By Huh Chuh @ huhchuh@yahoo.com © May 2002