Out of Touch

I don't know if I've ever succeeded

at being human

I carry a bag of evidence on my person 

to remind me how

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 of pain

I'm afraid we think more highly of ourselves than we ought 

I'm afraid our compasses 

Have never pointed North.