A blockade, false shelter

Maybe, I would rather be alone
Content from judgmental eyes
Writing poetically to myself
Stories to place upon me
May, or may, not others, choose to read them.
They are from me
My soul ripped out and placed onto paper
I’ve handed it to you each time
Will you pick it up?
Hug it to your chest?
Throw it across the room?
Tear it to pieces?
Will what it means to me
Mean the same to you?
Do you choose to interpret it differently?
Do my words matter?
If not, do you turn away from them, hold any emotions from what I have said, written, or typed?
In the end
Will I have been read?
Angela K. Crandall


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