poetry critical

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in the land without stars

Beneath this slippery-veneer, where authenticity is 'sincere,' where Love is the core-need of random 'friends' that come and go, whether it's where you live or any other place you show your face, but this I know, that if you wanna' grow, wanna' embrace that grace, then you wanna' have friends that feel out of pace with your winning Master-Race, and friends that show-up broken and crying in your space, and friends who are not just clones of you, doing the same things you're compelled to do, and friends that'll quietly take your hand when you don't know what's going on, and friends that'll give you a push when you felt your life was done...
I remember the school yard, where tribal approval ratings were the thing, judged well if you wore the latest and greatest 'bling,' and then another compelling day of whispered-opinion, and you felt their snickering derision; we sometimes have this need to feel special and cool, not just one of the herd, one of the clan, and yet, if you did not feel you belong, you'd be longing to all along, whether a woman or a man...
Rather than looking-away, we ought to be living like we're the first person who ever dared to say, 'hey, it's OK, I'd of loved you anyway...'

"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin

24 Jan 17

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