Writer's Block = Poetry

It’s a strange place I find myself in;

As I sit here staring out the window;

There are buses, people walking and talking;

For all intents and purposes, it’s a city like any other.

And yet…

I’ve tried.

I’ve tried to fit in…

I’ve tried to dress, speak, act like the people here;

I’ve tried to want what they want;

I’ve tried to understand.

But I can’t.

Because…

I don’t belong here.

There is something about this city that makes me feel dead inside

A place where people forget who they are and what they’re about…

And maybe most importantly where they come from.

A place without morals, values;

A place full of young people detached from their families;

A place where people care more about the things than the people.

A place where a 250 thousand dollar salary is more important than WHAT you do - or don’t do - to get it.

But I don’t need to.

Fit in.

Or understand.

Or try.

Any more.

Because I realized today…

Not to want it;

Not to fit that;

Not to be them…

That’s okay.