daibido

I don't know my self, and yet I do. I look at my reflection every day, only to find a familiar face; to which I trust not. My hand is offered in friendship to all that have good mind, hearts and souls. Yet no matter my good intentions, I am seen as a lurker, liar, and deceiver. My honesty and openness is seen mostly with suspicion. I may have problems with seeing reality, but that is why I see a doctor. Still the stigmas in the hearts of people, they make them see me as a societal leper. The few that know me see I mean only good, but the world only sees my skin, People say I have done nothing wrong, yet I mostly get from others their wrath. I must have done some form of wrong to deserve such pain and detachment. Yet I know I have done no wrong, and that is why I don't know or trust my self. For my reality has become distorted into the embodiment of hurt. Few know me, even fewer stand by me, those few I love like family; and wolfishly loyally protect. I only hope that I can learn to trust not just others, but my self again.