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What They Tell Me

I look at myself,
at the outer layer.
That's all my eyes can see.
They can't pierce
through the tough skin
and see what's in my heart.

They can't see
what's inside of me.
My thoughts, my dreams
my reality.
All they see is skin,
a face, another
countless body.

If my eyes see this,
then what of everyone else's?
I bet they have a hard time
seeing through that
first layer of humanity.

If all they see is that,
then what they tell me,
can I count on that?
Can I count on their words
of comfort, criticism,
when they don't know
the whole story?

How can they judge me
without seeing all of me?
How can the place me
in an ill-fating category?

I am not a book to be classified,
not a piece of art to be hung.
I am not a piece of clothing
to be tossed away when outgrown.

These eyes,
and what they tell me,
weave words that reach depths
deeper than my sea.
I am trying to look past them
and see the other shore.





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