Or so they tell me…
They keep telling me, write what you know.
Which I sort of knew, but don’t, and seems easy to do, but isn’t.
What do I know?
I know how to be a perpetual outsider who looks like he’s not.
Be nice. Go along. Get ignored. Fall through the cracks. Bust your guts to be anything but.
I know the people who don’t fit in and struggle to get by and wish they made another choice when they had the chance.
I know the ones who rode in on smoke and fell through clouds. I didn’t go there. I couldn’t dance.
I know what it’s like not to be heard because everybody thinks they already know.
I know what it’s like to look like a poser by standing alone and a liar by telling the truth.
You do the right thing but no one takes you seriously. Do the wrong thing and you’re canceled. Thrown beyond the gates where you hear the laughter in the night.
Walk a thousand miles and wonder what comes next. I know that too.
Stand naked in the rain. Face the dawn, or the rising moon; in silence.
I know rambling and randomness and the desire to make a difference but not to take a breath.
I know what it’s like to stare down darkness and inhale rare air.
I could write all of that, but would anyone care?