Sob Stories Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

I am not one to pass another,
On their knees.
Or look back with curiousity.
I 'may' stop to even assist.
To do whatever I can.
Before I leave.
But I don't have patience to sit,
And listen...
As to how 'The Man' put someone,
In that position.
With it expected of me,
To have embittered compassion.

My thoughts are not weakened,
By revisiting historic ancestral memories.
Or why anyone...
Can not get up and stand,
On their own two feet.
When it took me years to overcome,
Believing my own sob stories done.
Hoping the telling of them repeatedly,
Would bring to me some empathy.
From others who knew,
Those same sob stories too.

None did I get. No one came to sit.
And to this day I know,
God did this to me intentionally.
God works in mysterious ways.
So mysterious...
It felt as if 'His' foot in my backside stayed.

And if...
Some did come to sit,
And I had been lost without faith...
On my knees seeking empathy,
With others sympathetic...
Weeping buckets of tears with me,
I still would be there but probably crawling.
To ensure my story told would be,
Much more symbolic of my chronic disposition.