A Passing Friend

A passing friend is what they say to me.
I walk the miles with canvas shoes and sack,
But should they want a friend to come for tea,
An offer of a bed to rest my back?
The night is long, I toss and turn til morn.
A little food, for I would soon depart,
I ponder with a smile upon my face,
And I am feeling torn
But thank them with an ache across my heart,
For once again I’ll wander place to place.

©Alima J Aug 2017

Scissorhands

The dark lays heavy ‘pon my brightest day —
 The thought of What is diff’rent? matters not.
I feel the barbs — they pierce — what people say:
 How could my heart and soul be doomed to rot?
Oh how they look and stare. Eyes blink despise,
For they believe that they are what is true,
In ignorance, their cruèlty speaks first —
 Normality arise?
When one is diff’rent — so much unlike you —
Their sordid repartee makes life accursed!
 
Each time your tongue, with venom, strikes my heart,
 Each time you plunge your dagger in my back,
Each time you walk away and swift depart,
 Each time I try befriending — You attack!
And now my life, ’tis written on my face,
The scars from many. Each one tells a tale
Of pain and sorrow, yet in silence dwell –
 Let these, your fingers trace;
No need for you or I to tread Death’s vale,
But understand my message. Learn it well.
 
Ferrick Gray
© 2017