it’s funny how

the eyes of a stranger can change color

 

seas of blue

harmonies of golden hues

the grey of a tattered shoe

 

but the look inside—

the peer into their emotions—

 

waves of seaworthy disgust

sails of unsurmounted sympathy in rust

vacancy that is so hard to brush

 

never changes,

as stagnant as a pond,

 

and that’s how they see me.

 

it’s funny how

it does not change

 

even if my smile is bright

even if I set them joyously alight

even if I earn my very own stripes

 

no matter what I give—

the parts of me I thought I’d keep—

 

my faith, relentless and taught

used and abused and fought

now nothing but a hopeless, exploited rot

 

it will never be enough for you,

or the crowd to come

 

to even simply care.

 

and it’s funny how

I always ask myself

 

what should I have done?

who do they want from me—a someone?

am I truly worth this state of “none”?

 

such hard-hitting questions—

heartbreaking questions breaking me to pieces—

 

an empty heart falls

like pottery against a cement wall

with no one to even watch the shattered crawl

 

that force me to try and give and search and beg

for a friend or more who sees me

 

and actually tries to love because

 

if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

who am I if no one looks into my soul?