When I count the people I can turn to,
my left hand looks with envy at my right.
Others won't value quirky things I do,
but I resist change in hopes that they might.
If other beliefs go to war with mine,
my words buckle and turn to walk away.
Our natural moments of silence are fine,
until they're made awkward by what I say.
I guard my bottle of words left unsaid,
so my mind, alone, must clean up the mess.
Any time a name creeps into my head,
my cells see a plague that I must suppress.
Though my heart can't seem to join another,
I believe lost souls will find each other.
