"Different: The Dirty Word"

I hate feeling like I have to change who I am to be somebody to the rest of the world.

I love being me. Being quirky, different, passionate & able to do things that most don't think about.

Why is being yourself considered such a bad thing these days? If you're not a clone, you're a random lost face in the crowd.

I write. I'm a writer. The company of others can be a bonus (or nuisance) but isn't really necessary. Peace of mind is all I really desire.

Everything is electronic now: all forms of art. It's hard to be seen, be heard or appreciated when you're competing in a sea filled with constant overstimulation of senses. There's no room for people who are merely interested in simple pleasures like writing a letter, reading poetry from a book or sharing a few laughs face to face.

I was jokingly called "grandma" by someone a month ago because I said owned books and refused to read electronic books. I love the crispness of turning pages, the smell of the ink on the page, the feeling of the binding running against the palm of my hands. That's all the sensory experience I need curled up on my couch.

Perhaps I'm a dreamer because I can't go backwards, but what's in front of me isn't inviting or appealing. I'm starved for genuine human connection, affection and attention. Real life and not the kind in reality shows. I want to live a life of purpose. Is that too much to ask?

Life seems to have lost all meaning of originality and excitement. Everyone has access to everything and everyone all the time. There is no element of surprise. There is nothing to look forward to. It's like a world of living zombies. The damage is far worse than I ever imagined it could be.

I'm alone because I'm different. Different used to be a good thing. Now it's like a dirty word.

.change.

You've counted me out,
counted me in,
pennied, nickeled & dimed me
I'm the only change you'll never spend
Smooth rounded corners of my existence hitting the fabric in your pockets
I'm forgotten & just cents
even if when we are alone you put me in your palm and it makes sense
I'm metal & you're flesh
I withstand extreme heat or cold without shelter & survive with little to nothing, but I'm strong
You are easily cut, bruised and scarred without repair...remnants of your history blemish the very hands you hold me in.
Let me go, let me know
The way it feels to be more than
an afterthought when the kinds that folds in artificial bliss
is a distant memory
& you realize you still have change
Left waiting but you'd rather stay the same
Being broke indefinitely