my hands shake
as i come to greet
a face appearing
friendly
but the voice
in my head
scoffs at the notion
that i was accepted
by this deer-eyed
stranger
who speaks
in a tone that
the voice
doesn't trust
it tells me
to follow its lead
so i do
blindly
waiting for it
to let go of
my hand
only to see
the stranger
staring back at me
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
