I sit
and watch
while
the others
struggle
with feelings
I can't
relate to
while having
gratitude
for my
inner zen
and
hoping
they can
find a
true
friend.
Note: Inspired by a prompt from Threads user reevesandroses. The prompt given was: "Write a poem or piece inspired by hardship." So I decided to write about what I see when observing communities I'm not part of, and how the in-group excludes someone with similarities to me on purpose. It's often the case that the person being excluded is neurodivergent. "Inner zen" in this context refers to the lack of anxiety felt on my end, due to me not allowing myself to blindly follow along with group think.
I once was called
"Miss Thang"
when I was
just expressing
My enthusiasm
about a topic
I greatly enjoy.
yet I was kind
and thoughtful
And I didn't
ever think to
go out of my way
to try to upset
And I even gladly
encouraged
Free choice.
but I do know
that I prefer
to not be ogled
by any sick folks
I do not know
and most of all
I just want to be
with good people
whom my odd
and distinct
autistic light
won't annoy.
Tired of feeling lonely
And drowning and floating
And living in conflict with myself
Drinking constantly and never quenching my wondering
Tired of seeing life and not being a part of it
Tired of being a part of something I cannot trust
Tired of not following my own plan
But take heart, I remind myself
That being on the outside
is good
For a writer.
Sometimes I wish I lived
In a world of shared deeper
Contextual continuity
Of mythology, cosmology and meaning.
But I know I’d be an outsider even then
Destined to push against the tide
Question authority and bend
The rules of reality
Asking why and how and when
Making waves
Not just to mess with a good thing
But to stir it up
The way a wind blows a storm in
And through
To cleanse the air and renew the land.
People like this need their space
For the sake of themselves and others
And fortunately for everyone
This world, this life
Is built on a foundation of space.
(1/19/26)
You hate me for my color.
You hate me for our differences.
You hate me for my successes.
You call me names.
You call me useless.
You call me an outsider.
You marked me as invisible.
You made me your scapegoat.
You expressed your hatred, and
Excluded me from your world,
Allowing you to define
Who was welcome into your group.
Do you feel united?
Are you at peace?
That is, until the next tension rises and
A new scapegoat needs to be found.
73 years ago
A kid my age steps off a curb.
And, in the motion of falling, he believes he can reach heaven.
He has the thoughts of someone
with an inverted ribcage
And he’s sick on cigarette smoke and hypocrisy.
A kid my age, 73 years ago, calls me a pervert.
Through the thin veil of time and space
We lock eyes.
I say “I see you.”
He says “You’re sick.”
But that’s wrong and he knows it.
I am not the sick one.
He is the kid with the killing hat
And the giving hands
That despise the people he gives to.
He is the kid with filthy thoughts and phony smiles
Who sees the hollow spaces between his ribs
In the innocence of a child’s eyes.
And despite the filth beneath his tongue
And the alcohol stinging his throat
I cannot bring myself to
Feel anything for him
other than
Pity.
I feel like a failed organ transplant
In this country, in this world
But it’s deeper than that
In my body, in my mind
my love life
is a flash of television
movies
reruns
and a bit of news
it's all on screen
and
i'm the outsider
looking in
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
below the world I sit in silence
an animal among machines
The Prayer of the Outsider
(A little old lady whispers all alone in the cold. Looking up at the rain filled sky.)
Dear God
You brought me to life from nothing
To try to do something
To share kindness
Compassion and a light for those in the dark
To follow
Then to return home with stories
When my bell you ring
To hear me stand and sing aloud
In the Holy Circle
About all the things I did when I was once alive
In the living gardens of mankind
So keep giving me strength to keep doing so
As I go
Amen
(C) Copyright John Duffy
Foundation of the piece.
In a new society slowly receding away from praying, do those who still pray, only come from the expected backgrounds?
Example.
The more mature generation.
My heart plays somber symphonies. It plays them exclusively for me. They are fragile and feminine. Breathtaking and melancholy. They perform songs of tragedy and cry out with sorrow but they are perceived by myself alone. Like an isolated violinist in a vacant theater, they are radiant but heartbreaking. My heart plays somber symphonies. Can’t you hear them?
You know,
I am a restless woman from ages past,
Who does not know the address of her home.
I am searching
For the address of my home.
The house where I was born
Held wealth that was never mine.
I worked,
Toiled,
And through all joys and sorrows,
I was a companion,
Yet remained an outsider.
In the house where I went
After marriage,
Carrying countless dreams,
I was known as the girl of another home.
I managed both home and outside,
Yet still remained an outsider.
Now I have grown old,
And my son is the master of the house.
Even now, I do not know
The address of my home.
In a world that rushes,
we step back,
disengaging from the flow
to observe, to reflect,
often choosing not to engage,
but to understand.
We, the outsiders,
interestingly disinterested,
bring a different lens,
a quiet strength,
contributing in ways unseen,
yet profoundly felt.
For the world needs us,
those who walk alone,
to bridge the gaps,
to offer new perspectives,
to remind the world
of the beauty in stepping back.
It's a question of what you can do.
Well, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Yet, I can't be with people or be friendly.
I just don't have it within me.
That's why I'm outside.
For this, I remain on my hill, on my descent.
It's a crescent just for you and me.
Just think, it's a fact, and that's just the way it is.
Can we agree now that this 'it' has always been?
This way been it, and this way will be it.
The way in the future.
In the way of our kids.
Yes, I can work.
That's what I can do.
Everybody else knows how to play ball.
I've never learned how to play ball.
So the ball don't play me too.
New Yorkers, in general, are very notorious
for walking way too fast, not moderately:
it's seen as an unpleasant remark;
tourists keep thinking to themselves,
" They're funny! " It's a stereotype they mock,
" Do New Yorkers ever rush to Central Park? "
An outsider asked a stern policeman,
" Why is everybody running? "
" Is the President coming? "
And the cop stared at him saying,
" You are an outsider, not so lean,
catch up to the marathon race:
they are rushing for the train:
they are going to their working place! "
And the shocked red-neck with a freckled,
peachy, round face grinningly replied,
" I never knew they raced like wild horses
to catch a train; we Southerners take our time,
and stress less, we play songs in our guitars
and drink lots of whiskey, we never walk a mile! "
How could the unamused officer take offence and contain his disdain...
when the naive dude offended every New Yorker?
His reply was a shock to the poor guy on naproxen,
" Run like them before I throw you in jail, or take the Southern Border! "
Note: No pun is intended, it's only to spike up some humor!
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