I’m not the average type of soul
and my scars would not show it.
I keep things tidy for the masses
lest they realize the stranger
who walks within their crowd.
I died one day when I was months old,
drowned within my first bathtub.
My mother who was 17 didn’t know,
she should have kept her eyes
upon the bubbly baby in water.
I do remember one thing though
her running down the street
with me in a bundle screaming.
I saw the skies and they were blue
and then I lifted upward for a visit.
She made it to the hospital,
my flesh was saved but in the end
I reconnected with that which I
had left to be here in this world.
I’m not the average type of soul
but there are many like mine…
we punched our ticket early
but were turned around.
:: 02-24-2014 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 