No one would ever compose a song for me
because who notices what I feel?
Expressions change with the scenery,
I am not an exceptionally beautiful being
in society's clouded eyes.
I have an itch to raise my voice
until it rises like the smoke
I see coming out of Sunday church.
I'm not a daily believer
and I don't hold a bible in my hand,
I may not be the richest
but I can find love
without owning possessions
or support from family.
This bitter morning can't nag me
I am the source of my imagination,
I can delight my senses anytime.
When the city bus pulls to the curb
I like to observe each homesick face
and see the good and purpose they
were born with, however oblivious.
No one ever analyzed me
and didn't refrain judgment.
I am just giving the world
what the world never gave me.
I know I am capable of much more.
I don't know about salvation.
Am I one who can be saved?
Or someone wanted and respected?
For now, I will leave my fate
up to those mood swinging clouds.
If they allow the sun to radiate
longer than daylight permits,
there might just be hope.
I live here wearing my cloak,
dirt-streaked and traumatized,
hugging the cold marble stone,
waiting on a miracle.
