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The People Downstairs

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The people downstairs don’t like me very much.
They think I’m strange.
They sit around the dinner table sometimes
And talk about how they don’t understand me.

The people downstairs are very different from me
But very similar to each other.
They all punch with their right hand.
They all think that I can’t hear my name when they say it.
They all have skin the color of grass stains
And only wear vertical stripes.

The people downstairs don’t care how my day was.
The people downstairs wouldn’t read this.
The people downstairs, they don’t want to talk about the moon landing
Or about prom dresses
Or about the running-back that got traded to St. Louis,
At least not with me.

Because the people downstairs think I’m strange.
They don’t want to know me, I’m sure.
The people downstairs don’t know that a portal between two worlds
Can be as simple as a stairwell.
They don’t know that they are aliens to someone else.
They don’t know how scary I am,
Not yet.
The people downstairs don’t know what I like to draw
Or what I ate for lunch
Or what my favorite color is.

And it could be because they hate me.
It could be because they don’t care enough.
And it could be because I’ve never been downstairs.




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