Who Are You, Stranger
glazing myself over as I usually do,
but what stares back at me
is not the reflection of the girl I've always known.
Who are you, stranger?
A girl no more:
worry-free,
no more;
a child's spirit,
no more.
Before me now
stands a woman
I do not recognize.
My heart can't help but ask,
who are you, stranger?
* * *
I know what I am;
a worn,
mother of three.
A caretaker,
wife,
and sibling.
I cling to my artistry,
an artist is the only other thing
I can call myself,
but is it only through my paintings
that I am able to speak?
To be?
Who am I
stranger,
could you tell me?
When you meet me,
what do you think?
Intelligence?
Snootiness?
How am I perceived?
Why is it that I feel,
only you could tell me?
An outsider's perspective,
perhaps?
But what a stranger perceives
of another stranger,
can hardly be what I seek to acquire;
understanding,
me.
I'm tired of feeling like a stranger.
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