With all the precious I see on the routes
A blessed route I call it
The normals choose to ignore
Free food but they don’t see what I see
Free shelter but they choose to disregard
My bed could be anywhere
My food could be everywhere
Made by anyone
And i am immune to being unwell
Unlike the normals
My heart bleeds in sympathy for them
They know not what they do
Indeed I’m blessed
Who really is insane?
My dirt has become a jest
But my dirt still remains my crest
thanks for liking our quote.. We appreciate you…
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You’re welcome
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This is a good write Ken
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Thank you Esther.
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You’re welcome π
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“My heart bleeds in sympathy for them
They know not what they do” : beautiful words…. I can relate.
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Thank you Clare for reading and commenting.
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Amazing dear
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Thank you
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π
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Funny
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I love it! So well written.. π
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Thank you
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You’re very welcome! π
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Another very nice poem. Thank you.
By the way, do you actually mean “Made by anyone” rather than “Made my anyone”? It seems to be a typo.
Happy November to you!
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Yes it is a typo error. It is actually “made by anyone”
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Thank you
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Awesome piece!
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Thank you
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Aldous Huxley said:
βThe real hopeless victims of mental illness are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence, because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives that they do not even struggle or suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does.
They are normal not in what may be called the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society. Their perfect adjustment to that abnormal society is a measure of their mental sickness. These millions of abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a society to which, if they were fully human beings, they ought not to be adjusted.β
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Thank you for this
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