Unknown Title.

Today is April Fools Day, 2022
Take into consideration that the year was a typo
Imagine that sort of mistake.
A year unimaginable
because you had not lived there
in that particular time and place.
Imagine all possibilities
CONTENGENCY THEORIES

"Had the author written the year wrong"?
Might it have been....
2021
2020
2010
2001
3022
Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda.
You must know though.
By now that the date is indeed correct
otherwise I would not have put so much effort
into proving it incorrect.
simplicity in fact.
Is the truth
in this poem.
      So,,,,,    
             Now taken that into account no matter date and time, I am still cognizant: sound of mind.
Pain stricken... my heart is aching.  
With sound awakening a different part of me.
Almost empty. I feel no pain, only deep seeded angst strains my heart again.
resentment I'd once choose to ignore; has found it's way back to me
again
 It is knocking at my door
reminding me of torment I'd had to endure.
Same pain as the sort that I've heard of before.
Often disingenuous, often unbelieved,
At least during the 70's. 80's.90's
I'd learned they don't ever see.
"OH YOU"RE LYING"
How sickening.
The ones stuck
Were never validated
so they remain sticky, slippery incapable of help.
Past a certain point
they'd lost their hope; trust.
Naturally now there suffering is sticky.
they'd been admonished, ridiculed, neglected.
Deeply Deceived.
Repeatedly. By abusers, family, and friends.
Never believed.
Their word meant nothing.
As children being honest
they'd only received more and more suffering
I call it negligence and ignorance
in the age of rebirth
the change of human understanding
a foundation for growth
unfortunately left many children
with incredible hurt
Thus thrusting them
 towards immense growth.
The sort of growth a child should not know.
This is natures fucked up work.
But it worked.
Kill one, to feed another.
and when another dies.
the next feeds... which in turn is feeding
remind me to give thanks
to cognitive ability
because without this
we'd not perceive.
anything.
Maybe without it there would no such ideaology as suffering,