Not So Easily Modified

Is it true that Jesus
Never performed miracles
In his hometown
Because people believed him
To be the son of a carpenter
Instead of the son of God?

I don’t know,
I heard it somewhere.
Maybe on Sirius,
But I can relate
To being
What others believe.

I slither and slide
From one persona to the next
So often
That I barely believe
In who I am and
Leaving wasted bits of me wherever I go.

I want to walk
In an armor of my own
Able to deflect
The judgments and complaints
Of others who seem happier
When I am what they want of me instead of who I am.

It’s not easy wanting that.
I take the stones, protecting myself with sticks
That don’t do anything
To change the doubts I have
In my abilities
To find balance in the expectations of others.

Still I try to change,
To no real effect,
Because I’m just the son of something
In the minds of all who cast negativity my way.
Maybe I’m just a son of a bitch
Who is destined to piss people off.

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