The Artist

There is someone I know
That I first met
Not that long ago.
She has a beautiful
Heart and soul.

She takes pictures
With her camera.
And I have seen
Some of the pictures
That she takes.
And they are striking.

The balance in her images.
The use of space.
The use of color.
The way everything is framed.
She’s very talented indeed.

But there’s something
In the way
This world has treated her
That disturbs me.
Causing me to remember
The scars in my own heart
And soul.

Scars I did not put there.

And that just makes me

I was injured
By this world
That we all live in,
Just because I’m different.
And I don’t see things
The same way
As the people around me.
And I don’t understand
The way things are.
Or why people
Can be so very cold.
As if their hearts had frozen
Cold as ice
And hard as stone.

There are so very many people
That just seem to me
To have no heart
Or soul.
That have died inside.
And now just march
Through endless days
Where nothing ever changes.
And if they encounter anything
Or anyone
That does not see the world
The same way as them.
They throw that someone
They get rid of him.
Or her.

My friend once had a job
In this world she never made.
Nearly 2 years ago.
But she did not fit in.
She was different.
And because she was,
She was thrown away.

And this world
That I never made
Has not let her work
At anything
Since then.

This makes me damn angry.

There are those that ask me
How I can hate this world
So very much.
How I can be angry
Like I am.
Where the frustration I live with
Comes from.

I’ve tried to explain.
But none of them has understood.
All they’ve ever said is,
“You can’t live that way!”

They don’t understand
That I can’t live at all
They way they do.
That doing so
Would flat kill me.

I tried, you know.
For 29 years
In the land of work.
I tried to blend in.
And behave
Like all of them.

I’ve been recovering from that,
Every single day now
For the past 15 months.
That’s how wounded I became
Trying to do things
Like everyone else declared
Was the only way to live
In this world
I never made.

My doctor wonders when
I’ll strike out on my own,
To earn a living
For myself.
To be my own

Because my doctor knows
That this world
I never made
Tore my heart apart.
And shredded
My very soul.

And now I see
The way this world
That I never made
Has hurt my friend.

And people are stupid enough
To ask me why
I’m angry?


My friend takes pictures
That are beautiful.
That are works of art.
I don’t care
What other people think.
What other people say.

Unlike them.
I still have a heart.
One that isn’t frozen
Hard as stone
And cold as ice.

And my heart says to me
That my friend
Is an artist.

And that this world
That I never made
Is a sad place indeed
If it turns away
People like me.

And my friend
The Artist.

I know that with time
I will find my own way
In this world
That I never made.

And I know too
That given time
And patience.
And a never ending faith
In her self.

My friend,
The artist,
Will find her own way too.


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