Re-Orientation

I am so sick for myself

So worried with wandering and wondering

What shall I do next?

There is so little time to do all the things

That I want and dream and see myself

Doing. I strive and I stress

I play the games and talk the talk

Just to be seen.

And why?

To think that I myself matter--

That my own words scrawled

Across this scraggled, screaming page--

Shout to the world--these words?

I am shouting at a world of strangers--

(There are no strangers here, only

Friends we have not met)--

Because I don't know them

And they don't know me.

It is always easier to be honest

To that bare, blank face

That says nothing back.

Nothing you know.

So I write my word--what for?

I have no true voice of my own

And only in words can I see myself

So this is what it is.

A thirst to be seen?

To be affirmed, recognized, considered, commended?

By myself

These strangers--

(There are no strangers here, only

Friends we have not met)

This blank face of the world--

Is not a thing that can see.

I myself have been so inside searching

I've forgotten who the real friends are

Have I met them yet?