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Entre Nous



I'm not sure that anyone belongs anywhere.
What is just happens to be.
But that's not good enough for you, is it?
You want to pretend, to believe—same thing.

You will take the habit of a year,
or a lifetime, or several, and call it tradition,
then stand grinning, waiting for approval,
for applause, as though you've done something.

But you don't belong anywhere,
you don't deserve anything.
You may not like what you get,
you may think it doesn't fit,
but the idea that you are entitled to more is madness.

Still, when did existence require authorization?

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.