I do not hide behind trees nor rocks or doors
Nor in the pages, I fill,
Never have done so.
Yet, long ago, I realized
People do not see me as their friend,
As such, I do not have any friend
To share my thoughts.
Almost all of my life
I have spent lost in books and my thoughts;
Very ordinary my life has been
With hardly any ripple raised.
Though I carry no false impression about myself,
The urge to write is strongly ingrained
And the care to express.
In the beginning, criticism did hurt,
Now, it is my evaluation that counts;
There are no suggestions for me to wave away
And I am happy.
Monday, March 22, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: relief