Being Me

Tired.

And disappointed.

That who I am is never good enough —
That being me does nothing to measure up.
Our definitions skewed, reality obscured,
Success turned on its head.

That caring doesn’t count for much;
Money does the talking.
One fills my belly, the other my soul —
The echoing refrain.

That, though all lives are equal, some lives matter less.
That preachers preach instead of practice
And talk is cheap.

We miss the value among the noise,
Buried in a cacophony of copies,
Tempted with our eyes and blinded by our tongues.

I want to be
And have that be enough.
But no,
At least that’s what I’m told.

How so
When what I know is different,
What I know is real.

That beauty comes from caring,
Value from fraternity —
Toil illuminating truth.

Advertisements