There is my life, out there,
Touching others, with opinions
Forming of what my life, in here,
Is about.

Do they like me? Do they
Engage themselves in supposition
Of who I am; of what I choose
To believe?

Do they prejudice me,
As I wrongly do against others;
Categorising me into
A fixed mould?

They don't know the real me.
They see a facade, a fleshy cast,
Brail expressions formed for those who
Wish to read.

Or do they? They may see
Through my false demeanour and find
That despite my manner, I care.
I hope so.