The people who see
me for me
don't like it and would rather i be
Someone who is not me
and that i'd prefer to be.

Dust-covered two-lane highways
Catch the footfalls of my meanderings.
Meadowlarks and Phoebe-birds
Sing backup to my tuneless whistles.
Clouds illuminated by God-rays
Paint the sky above my head
And the Man in the Moon
Smiles as I bed neath a willow for the night.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
The iron wrought train tracks
I secretly ride pass through the fields,
The forests, the mountains and valleys,
The cities and suburbs, the small towns too,
Home to so many who choose there to dwell.
But my home is the open countryside,
The fields of wildflowers and bushes,
The occasional oak or poplar for shelter,
With a stone for my pillow
Anywhere I wish to rest.

I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***.
I am the outsider.

such a small word
blending into the background
always making an appearance
but never recognized
so used
so beaten up
so lost among the swirling fog
such a simple concept
but as familiar to us as water
slowly trickling over our sentences
over our words
embellishing our writing without us even knowing
sometimes
i like to think
that we should become more aware
of the little things
of the tiny details
of the lowercase
in our lives



-k.l.

Do you ever feel like you’re not really there?
Like people aren't ignoring you, they just can’t see you?
Do you feel that you’re a face easily forgotten
And a voice always outspoken?
It’s like there’s a one-way window between you and the rest of the world
And you’re the one always looking in.
And you know it probably won’t ever change.
But you can’t help but hope that someone on the other side dares to look out and see you.