When people call me “Ma’am,” I perform a searching pirouette to make sure they’re actually addressing me. It breaks my heart when the teenage cashier offers up an un-assumed status. Am I that old?
Ma’am is my mother.
Ma’am is the lady strolling down the street with three leashed Corgi’s obediently licking her polished heels. Ma’am is my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Barnes, who scolded disrespect like’s we’d just committed Larceny. Ma’am is the politician demanding your regard, even when their policy imprints utter abhorrence.
Ma’am is not me…is it? The high-bun donning, odd sock wearing, tie die spattered, Australian.
I feel like a fraud. An impostor in my 26-year-old shell. Take those words back would you? You now have me questioning my age and allotment in life’s monarchy. Thanks alot Sam. You curly haired, once friendly faced, CVS employee. It’s not like I was buying Menopause medication or reading glasses. I was purchasing Club Soda!!
My mind is running around life’s playground like a pre-pubescent teen, while real teens are commenting surreptitiously on our age gap. I’m wearing this adult veneer in trickery. A mascarade of maturity is only assembled in hope that my not so subtile messages capture societies’ soul.
Am I really a Ma’am? You be the Judge.
Happiness Worth Capturing
A Surf board toting hitch hike because busses just aren’t as fun
It is when I wake that my mind is full of dreams. The possibilities of tomorrow. The etchings of the moment. The pondering of the past. Rested by my future. Its limitless adventure.
“No rest for the wicked” jolts me awake and inscribes itself within art. No permission requested, yet this muse is never refused. If societies sins are denied by sleep, I inevitably reap from the cyclically suppressed.
The wickedness of life is where my slumbers reside. I give morsel of sleep to those who suffer at the hands of the wicked ones. My words carve their hardship. My etchings chisel away at the inhumanity of human nature. I happily forfeit rest for the wicked as it inevitably lay’s to rests with the suppressed.
Tick tock goes the clock, tip tap goes my nap
Sleep is reaped by wicked woes widening the gap
Death finds verse as I transverse my etchings on a screen
Slumbers wane as I proclaim for kids to meet their dreams
Please share any feedback. Would love to hear what keeps you up at night?
Life on a whim. My rise and falls matching the occasions. Success and failure without accountability. I was just there. A bystander to life. A witness to the despondency of my existence. I embodied ambivalence.
I found my heart could speak. I am a speaker
My sound harked for the weak. I am a teacher
The ground cracked under feet. I feel my power
Now my mind embarks on life’s feat. This is my hour
“Equip your lips with tactfulness to unshackle what resides
What keeps us up at night, producing pain when lips confide
Assemble with me, armed with words… to pierce a callused skin.
Corse coverings, now seeping… with solvents to your grin”
Mind to Unbind
I would love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to comment, like, share or further peruse my mind.