Who Am I?
I am me. I'm here. I listen. Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible; I'll stand quietly by and no one notices, I finally speak up and no one hears. But being invisible has its advantages. I unobtrusively observe. I am not blind, nor deaf. I see. I listen. What do I see? What do I hear? I see the lost, searching; Searching for someone, somewhere; Somewhere to be. Why search? Where have you come from? I hear the heart- and even soul-felt cries; Cries of pain, and anger, and fear. I fall back; I'm confused; Why hurt? Where has the pain come from? I feel. I feel the pain and anger and fear. Some is my own. But I shut it out - it is in my way. How can I help? Can I help? What can I possibly do or say That will heal, or help? I want to help! I hate to see the pain. I hate to hear the talk... Of despair... And even death. Death doesn't solve a damn thing! It may end pain, and sadness, and fear, But it also destroys hope. I want to give hope. But I fear there is not enough of me to give. I spread my arms to you; I welcome you to me. But not all at once. I fear that if I give too much, There will be nothing left of me. Who am I, anyway? I am me. I'm here. I listen. |