I grow weary

A poem

I grow weary

from an insidious brand of love —

not true love, but those hungry for a vessel:

who seek status over connection:

a penchant for stacking oneself

on top of another.

I grow weary of those

who do not ask questions,

and call to be seen in light

when they never wonder

where light comes from.

I grow weary by those

who do not seek

the intelligence of kindness —

and hold an unwillingness

in the heart.

I grow weary when

I’m told it must be a burden

to be singular —

but I carry love in freedom 

through green fields alone.

I am not afraid to walk at night.

I am so good with myself,

I grow sick when I forget

that I matter.