Flabbergasted

My dear, you appear to be broken

but it's the rarest case as the look

on your face would say it's just your

body, and not at all your mind or soul

But why, I ponder?

When yonder sits this face

emulating sunshine rays while

to most these would seem troubling,

dark days indeed.

Why would you speak with hope in

your voice? When a more sensible choice

would be to shut inside oneself?

As a cynic, a poet I've come to

believe I know it all concerning people

and life, as well as the strife accompanying

these things. But you are a girl, you're just this

beautiful girl and already you know more of

life's tricky hands than I hope I ever might.

What business have I? To layabout

inside, to sneer and make snide remarks to

others and God when you can't feel your toes?

How do you smile? Plainly speak and smile all

the while knowing numbing pains others can't

begin to comprehend.

I want to be angry for you, yet you don't seem angry.

I want to care for you, but you've gotten along well

enough without me so far.

I want to know you, I want to fit you in a stanza, but

I can't seem to understand you.