For Those Who Aren’t Merry

I feel reclusive during the holiday season. I feel withdrawn, and my skin crawls from the frenzy of human energy scurrying to appease their loved ones in the name of what they believe to be truth; over charging credit cards; bleeding themselves dry to have the best; to look the best; to hope their friends will say theirs was the best…

Appearances
Appearances
Appearances

They call it the North Star, which actually shines over the North Pole and couldn’t have possibly been shining over an alleged son of a god.

I realize that most humans don’t really care about truth right now. They are too caught up in appearances, what others will think of them, over compensating their children and giving way to consumerism while other humans starve, struggle and weep with pain.

I don’t feel “joyful, joyful we adore thee” when I see Christmas lights. Instead I think, “what a waste of electricity that the tax payers have to absorb.”

I’m not bah hum bug. I’m a realist who doesn’t believe in the birth of a messiah. I’m a person who refuses to give way to the mind control and the over-rated mass carnage that is Black Friday.

Social networking disappears for me during these times. I man my personal pages but hide away from reading my personal feeds too much. It’s emotional triggering and draining to me to observe how superficial humans can be.

Change is once again upon me; there are unknowns swirling all around in my life, and celebrating falseness is not on the top of my priority list. Surviving is.  I see people suffering in the same places I see people fawning and showing off their greed. Will they ever stop, for just one moment, and look around to see the vast needs of the suffering?  Will they ever say, this year, we’re going to help others, because maybe, that’s what this is all truly about.

I see apathy disguised as giving. I see narcissism disguised as care and concern. I see the realism that lies deeply under the surface of plastic smiles and over drawn bank accounts.

and I hide away. I hide in my cave where I don’t have to see the sickness in humanity; the mental illness that can bury my soul with the heaviness of it all.

Poverty

After cult life I
Know what it’s like
Run across the road
In the dark night
Steal vegetables
From the neighboring farm

And it harm none
Mama formed the mission
Holding her Bible
A glory soaked misfit

Cold seeped doorways
On an old trailer
In lot Number seven
Piling up blankets
Summers fanning heat

There was no heaven
In our empty stomachs
Or a cruel mother who
Stood us in the welfare line

She was too ashamed
To carry the box
With the cheese blocks

Public Humiliation
Public Assistance
Poverty Resistance

There was no difference
Between dark and light skin
Not in the dusty neighborhood
I was a teenager in

We all knew the same sadness
The lonely, nights
Listening to the drunken fights
Echoing from Lot number six

The one road that divided us
We crossed it anyways
No moat could kill connection
Of like mind interaction

With them I found soul
First bi-level hair cut
I learned the shuffle
The southern hustle

Our skin color
Had no relevance
To each other
Because we had in common
The struggle of poverty

“What would you buy
If you won the lottery?”

“Back to life
Back to reality”

I didn’t know
What that meant to me

Life
Reality

I was just surviving

And memories of the after life
When things should’ve been better
Are sometimes harder
To remember because they’re

Clearer
Defined
Painful
Reminders

And my keys are more tired
Than my fingers
But the lingering remnants
Drop from their tips
As I tell the rest of it

There are stories
Filling seasons and I
Feel their festering
Where once I had to dive
Now they willingly rise

Exploding, bursting to tell
How one little girl
escaped human hell

Where comfort
Should have rang
I clanked my
Poverty bell

vennie kocsis
7/5/15