I am walking down the street.

There are conversations I cannot hear.

There are lies I cannot deny.

There are fears that grow deep.

Although I am in a community, I do not know them. I don’t know what they want. I don’t know what they need.

There is so much poison. My hand stretches forth but none can grasp it. I would offer it in love, but I am not of them. I can’t help them stand tall when they doubt my motive. Bad things done by others have the same shape as my gift.

I look in the mirror, yet I cannot see what you see. I stand in front of a camera and the image is transformed by an aura of doubt. Even if I offer words for a caption, they may not mean what I intend.

If I close my notebook, I won’t be able to write a better story. Without an antidote to the poison, it will fall short.

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