A Place We Call Pity
A New Poem
A Place We Call Pity 05/03/2026 David C. Roberson
Some victims are born. Some victims are made. Some victims self-name for the attention they crave. An exit ramp to a city where they say, “Dry your tears. This is a place we call Pity. Our adulation is clear.” You’ve really done it, kid. You’ve overcome. With everything you’ve been through, it’s a wonder you’re so strong! Some people write wrongs, and their hatred will spew. Generalize and catastrophize just to justify their thin views. Then turn around fast, lament all the joy thieves, who are vast and judgmental. Hypocritical pleas! Yeah, kid, you’ve really got the hang of it. They’ll repost all your content, comment, “Sorry you’re going through this!” Some people betray all the good folks they know. Demean family and friends, and upend them for the sake of the show. Some people are preening, “Pretty please, pick me!” But they’ll make a feast over any crumb of offense they wish to perceive. Oh, kid, the way you did me? Did me in. Now mine my minor musing to feed your feckless pen. I’ve seen you shape a wound to fit a watching crowd, how you sharpen something small when the sympathy is loud. You always looked soft, and fragile and wise. Most people will fail to see the tempered glass hiding there behind your tired eyes. Pretense is exhausting. Stirring shit wears you down. You might find yourself crossing over to another town. Yeah, kid, you’ve got ’em fooled. They won’t suspect. You feel like you’re beloved, but you’ll never get their respect. Pity’s just a city you’ll come to hate, but you’ll always be a denizen of a dramatic, delusional state.