Open Letter / Self-Righteous, Heartfelt Gibberish

To Respected God-Knows-Who;
Most of whom do not know anything about the creature I am crafting myself into.
Dear Madams, Sirs, Fuckwits and Friends, Greetings.

To you who do not stop to think,
Or stop to wonder, once you do,
At all the beauty, joy and truth that could be, but isn’t:
I pity you.

For those of you who would rather rail about poverty and ‘ignorance’, drought and flood
But do not feel it in your blood
To those who speak of how senseless the world has become
But would, if offered the chance to change it, turn and run.
Or simply look away and lie:
"I can’t do anything about it"
Stay at home, please,
Curl up and die.

When my time comes,
And I’m sure it will,
I do not want to lie there and think
That your lack of curiosity, imagination, pain and hope
Stopped me from taking a long, deep drink
Out of every pool of broken dreams
That I can could press to my lips
And heal with a kiss.

When my time comes, I want to be disappointed.
For it will mean that I have hoped till the last.
Exhausted,
For it will mean that I have bled.
Content.
For it will mean that I have mingled with every kind of wind and rain, every storm, every rainbow.

_________________________________
I don’t want to hear anymore that I take the world too seriously. I don’t want to hear anymore that I have ceased to find joy in tiny places, in old and familiar things. It is precisely the opposite. My joys are starting to come from a different place. My sadnesses from a different place. And you can stand in front of my view for as long as you want, but until you see it from my eyes, you will never see why when I listen to some of the things you say, and twist with pain inside.