I am good for
words,
that is all
I am for.
Not to be seen,
touched, loved,
understood or
cherished;
only heard,
or rather,
read.
In person,
I am avoided.
My time is spent
alone.
The world stands
at a distance.
I reach out my hand
to touch,
and humanity
recoils.
Difficult.
Emotional.
Unstable.
Unnatural.
Unsuitable
for social
life.
So I pass notes.
I write my soul
on little slips of paper
and I fold them up
with care,
before I scoot them
under the door
to the outside
world.
Sometimes,
people read them.
4-5-18
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