The Web is full of spiders, but I don’t write to spiders.
I write for the honey bees and butterflies.
The bees are busy, and the butterflies won’t sit still.
No one listens to me. But I was told once, you will.
The irony for one who hates the majority—
The majority of the minority doesn’t like me,
And the rule applies even when I’m faced with two.
I need a smaller minority. I need you.
She once ran to me, and now she runs away.
I think and dream on that happier day,
And fear there will never be a happier tomorrow.
Yet I was happy once. And called it sorrow.