Wildes Writing

I’m used to it,

the waking up,

being watched 

and listened to.

I’m used to it,

I can’t eat anything anymore;

I can’t drink;

I know what they do to the food and water.

I see them looking at me;

I walk around, they stare.

I sit, they stare.

But I’m used to it.

I wonder what their agenda is?

Why they follow me incessantly?

They’ve got spies everywhere,

but I’m used to it.

I asked for money at the library today, and was looked at like some a freak.

They poisoned my clothes and I need to buy more, I said.

Nobody cares about fellow man I guess,

but I’m used to it.

Yes, I’m used to it,

but you never escape the shame

of being painted a cretin 

by everyone who sees you.

Always, you’re new to this,

even when it’s everyday.

I wandered into the café;

I was hungry and needed money.

I begged and pleaded, crying at the counter.

I told them I was humiliated; Please, I just need help, I asked in tears.

They said no.

And I’m used to it.