There is always a Me, and a Them, But there never really is an Us, They'll let you in, yes, They'll be nice to you, Share their food even; But there's always that little space They keep in between, The r not rolled correctly, The colour of your skin, Or the way you smile at the women; They're happy to help you try, But if you do roll the r the right way, There's something about eating cheese That you won't get right. The best jokes are not for you, They'll cuss just out of earshot So you can hear the hiss, And they might talk to you about return journeys More often than you think polite. Stay apart, Wanderer, You never did belong, You never will.
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.