I’m a collection
of narratives
given and forced,
left to sort out
what stories
are mine
(if any)
Faith, Health, and Other Musings
May our minds flourish with creation, and may our hands never deny its expression.
I’m a collection
of narratives
given and forced,
left to sort out
what stories
are mine
(if any)
Can you beleive
how they mock me
for the way that I speak?
“Logan uses big words now.”
There’s nothing so
beautifully individual
as one’s pattern of speech,
the path to self-expression,
the words that hang on your lips,
whispering to the listener
the secrets about who you are
and where you’ve been.
It’s ok if I’m sad,
but weird if I’m morose or sullen.
It’s normal if I’m happy
but too much if I’m euphoric.
I won’t reduce my language
just so that you like the sound if it.
(I don’t, and would not, hurl insults at another’s self-expression, and I won’t carry shame — or ignominy, if you don’t mind — for mine.)