Me Poem by Mary Bailly

I am normal,
though I've been called strange.
I do not hide,
though I am rarely to be seen.
I have tried to seek,
comming up empty every time.

Hurt in more ways than one,
I have cried myself to sleep.
Feeling used and used,
a marrionette with broken strings.

I feel the rain
on my face.
The cold remembrance of existance
a last hurrah for the human race.

I hold it dearer to mine own,
than hidden desires of wanton faith.
The God I believe can save a life,
turned from me in blatant distaste.

Lost am I,
in thoughts and false splendor.
The walls begin to fall,
It's like Berlin again.
I feel my broken strings are strained,
holding onto all that remains.

I fight with all I am given,
and rarely ask for more.
Knowing is half the battle,
I have a chance to win the war.