Do I write poetry?
Or does poetry write me?
Or, perhaps, I write poetry,
and poetry rights me…
I experience an extreme
lack of understanding
from the people I meet.
They do not see me
almost at all,
though they believe
that they see all.
If I cannot express simply
who I truly am,
how could someone else define me
with just a glance?
Ender said it,
and I felt it, because
How can you judge me,
If you do not first know me?
And how can you know me,
If you do not first love me?
It is little wonder
i feel so alone.
I’m surrounded by judgements,
So,
barely seen,
barely loved,
barely known.
But by myself.
Post-a-day 2021
