Or that's how I reflect on what that deliberate torture meant, People torturing each other as I observed, stoically. But it's my reflective nature that shows me what I'm not, probably. People who meet me see immediately I am painfully circumspect, The type who wouldn't hurt a fly, Avoids bullying and hurt and harm. Loving her I wouldn't grab her. First I would probably caress her arm. Maybe I avoid your eyes, But that's to see better within my reflective nature. For instance just yesterday in the busy train station I noticed a beautiful woman with two races strongly stated And both were not my own And immediately I reflected (Thinking is beautiful how it goes completely undetected) Her races are superior to my own (And surely this was wrong and yet with conviction I thought it With the warm, beating feelings of a poet) However, I reflected, my inferior race allows a more unique and creative individual to peek through. Rarely, rarely do I show my poetry to you. And I never know what to think when I do. I am not a performer, really. I'm caught inside unconscious jelly, an articulate person struggling to get out. No, I would never torture anybody And yet you are probably tortured by this poetry! I can hear you saying, "Get out of here, you lout! I don't really like you. You confuse me so much That your sensitive side, yuck, I could never, never love." And with this rebuke, I subside into a stillness, Like one carefully reflecting on a dream one has just had. I had to hope, and that hope was mad, that the next poem which possessed me unconsciously Would not be awfully too, too bad.
