So I wrote a poem ..

Can you see, my past is history
It lives within
it repeats itself from others non educated
So the present cannot arrive?
The struggle of the knowing
even internally glowing
is smashed by ambience of surround
It has a sound
And it abounds
And that is my punishment should ever exist
Those people
those facilitators of belief
Do they ever speak
to those carrying MY grief?
And my existence set in history
even in the now.