Am Not

He is not a graceful person

He is not a Sunday morning

Not the dew-cooled, sun rise

Casting glorious shadows over golden plains

He is Tuesday at 2 a.m.

Gunshots muffled by city blocks

A broken window at the beginning of winter

An experience of illness without wealth

His bones crack on a nightly basis

His two left feet are never elegant

And he apologizes profusely for his awkward sadness

He sometimes believes he shouldn’t be around people

That he belongs to all the leap days of February

And all of the prayers gone unanswered.

The way the light and darkness mix

Under his skin has become a storm

You may not see the lightning in his eyes

But at his heart, you can hear the trembles

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