It bothers me that you didn’t try to know me.
You gave me so much to write about.
Like mini-clips from pen to paper.
You didn’t even know that I was a writer.
Nor did you care about the story that I experienced.
The story that you heard but never asked about.
That story told a lot.
You became too busy,
sitting so prim and proper on your tall pedestal.
Always judging me, looking down at me,
like you were a better person than me.
I never moved from my place.
I was still there, standing on the dirt ground.
I felt the hard ground beneath my feet as I stood
barefoot and humbled.
You could have looked down or looked in my direction.
You could have caught a glimpse of me.
You might have even recognized me.
If you had took the time to know me.
