Out of Touch
I don't know if I've ever succeeded at being a human being I carry a bag of evidence on my person to remind me But I worry it is not enough. I worry I am too fixated on being nice, that I cannot be truly kind I'm afraid I jump to conclusions and make assumptions with my eyes I'm afraid I assign malice where misunderstanding will suffice I'm afraid my walls are too high for anyone to climb. I'm afraid we are impatient and self-contained I'm afraid we can't hear each other over our own thoughts I'm afraid we think more highly of ourselves than we ought I'm afraid my compass has never pointed North.