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(All) The Stranger To Myself


I don't think other people like me
because
I don't like myself.
So I dislike them first...
its a habit I learned
(a long time ago) at home.
Is it easier that way?
I ask myself.
But it isn't.
There is no mirror
that will ever reflect
the way I feel
for often
I don't know the answers
myself...
or how it is
or who it is
I really am,
until someone points me out.
And then I feel
foolish
when I realize
that I am
indeed
the one
who is
(all)
the stranger
to myself.


I call this another one of my "sky" poems...one that was conceived either
while sleeping, after waking, or lying in bed letting my thoughts run where they will.

Copyright May 25 2012   All Rights Are Reserved By This Author
Melissa A Howells    Meloo from her Tilt-a-World







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