Talent Ambianced1

I am not like you

By Ambianced1 | 2008

I am not like you, nor have I ever been.
I am made from a cast of an unused mold
I am what you see yet never fully get.
I am duality.

I am not like you. Though the capacity hides within me
You see similar traits, yet there are none.
My eyes are like your sister’s, my expressions, like that of your aunt.
But your sister’s eyes have not seen nor your aunt’s face expressed;
What I am engulfing in every moment.

I am not like you. You may “never meet a stranger” as the saying goes
I however rarely strangely meet anyone who doesn’t know that I know.
People don’t see me as a person in an aisle, they seek me out asking me
What I know about them, and at that moment I know too much.

I am not like you. Though, conspicuously I try to hide it.
I can see what happened to the little girl in your neighborhood
I know what you did and you know that I know.
It happens like that, not a new thing, but an unspoken ability.

I am not like you. You fear death and cling to the life you clumsily hold
I have seen the peace of death and the dignity it brings,
Yet I have seen death shatter the righteous and death has seen me
It calls to me, screaming for me to come when called, yet I disappoint it.

I am not like you. I hear screams in the night, and know from where they come
Yet I cannot silence them with muzzle nor pillow.
I order silence on an imaginary menu and am served guilt with a side of pity.
I do not eat, I only digest.

I am not like you as we stand at the water’s edge. You see inspiration and tranquility. I see possibility to quiet the unrest.
I am not like you when you say your empty prayers. I do not make deals with God for he has dealt with me already.

I am not like you. My vision is 20/20. I see the past, present and future with clarity.
I know nothing of what will not happen, but I know what will; and it drains me.
I see the losses I must face. I see the names I must bury. I feel the shovels dig back the dirt and unknowingly I stand ready.

I am not like you. I carry on carefree, expressing little depth, but inwardly I am an ocean of turmoil with an undercurrent that pulls every fiber of my strength.
I dismiss the chaos and it screams for me to join. I cover my head with the dirt from the shovels, yet cannot be buried by the soil of another’s grave.

I am not like you. A drive in the country sounds nice; A trip to the city a joy.
Keep your cars and traffic. Keep your trips and outings but keep off the side of the road. Can you not see the crosses bearing the names of the dead? Do you believe that you are immortal and that nothing bad will happen if you just stop there for a moment?

I am not like you. I see Jeffery’s cross. I see Sammy’s cross. I see and hear every cross and feel the horror of each cross I pass. I am not like you. I see the hovering, I see the impending, I hear the screams and the brakes. I see the lights and I see the outcome.

I am not like you. You go through your day as if its one of many. I see the finite and you delude yourself with infinity. I see your mortality yet I cannot tell you not to go. You won’t listen even though I scream it across a silent earth. I cannot save you with all that I know and I am futile in my attempts to not care so much. Do you not see that if you die I feel responsible? Do you not know that if your heart stops beating, mine follows suit?
I am not like you.

Nor am I any longer like me.