as I know look back on what could of been:
The choices I made that night, to sit and help and read from the source
Or to stand and speak from memory.
We know the outcome from the later yet it is the former i play our game with.
As I said before had I but sat there to read from the source what would of happened?
Would you be happy?
I can to presume to know.
I would thought yes and I cannot fully yes.
Yes becuase if I had asked that question to which we both wanted asked at the time,
or atleast I wanted asked and you have perhaps, I think you would have at the time, said yes,
then I think you would be happy in one situation:
You would not have had to deal with what the two guys in the real think of you
because if, by good grace, had it been this way you would have not done what you so dislike.
But would you be happy?
Or even to ask could I make you happy?
I wonder if you could to be happy with it
or if I could even make you happy here in this place.
Though what I do not understand is how both friends to the north and past the lake say:
How sweet I am, how caring, how nice, how cute, how much of a good person I am.
Yet those who know me the most and the least, as they know me in the real, say:
I am a creep, how scary I am, that I am a stalker, a freak and I have no friends and I am evil.
Though all these people who know me, trully and not in the real, to you I ask then:
Why then if I am all these good things do I have no one to call my own or for them to call me their own?

Is it because here I am able to open the boarders between two people, you and me that is,
While in the real I keep my barriers up?
I think it is not the answer becaues I have tried to lower them for those I thought would listen.
Those who were friends or so they called themselves but all them brush me aside or say I am even creepier.
Maybe then its the fact you cannot hear my voice but my thoughts and my emotions as they are;
and put then your own tones your emphisis and meanings on my words.
But then there are those who trully listen to me in the real and move till their backs are to the wall.
Tell then what am I missing: I do good, I have served and helped and bent over backwards
Yet I am the evil one, I am the inhumane one, the freak the outcast.
I have helped you and you cast me asunder!
Is that all I am here for to make it easier for you, is it not hard enough for me to strach my name for a futre
That you must steal and beg for my help.
Or my service, I am called evil, and I have done things no others would,
I have in sickness spent hours doing things that cut my body up just to be helpful.

I asked once what was different from me and one person,
One who was happy and did service work like me,
One who liked the same things as me,
The clear difference was our health,
The next difference was how out going he was.
Why though is he different in that he is happy, he did not feel hollow inside, that he could be with others.
You told me that I had to find out an answer on my own,
But it was not an answer to what I asked it was an answer to something beyound my question.
You have told me I must answer but not what I must answer;
Therefore, with no road before me how am I too answer;
Where am I to start, am I to strach and pick my way up to find this question that you have
burdened my over burdened soul with, to make you happy?
How do I know this vain quest to fill my void is not but another blurry illusion.
I seek to please others, and when I succede, that is to say when I am allowed, I feel hollow and am not please.
When I try and I am rejected by the vain ignorant comments of the borish idiots I feel nothing, not the hollow but the hollow with the hollow and that feels of something that is numb and beyound that painful hollow.

If I had but a simple head to rest upon mine shoulder,
to feel the tender beating of a heart
The softness of skin, a hand against mine,
Or of hair so light and beautiful,
The coolness of breath against my skin.
To just have another that cares that will burden my burdens with me,
Whose burdens I will burden with them,
I think then maybe the hollow would be gone, for I care so much for others and yet feel so little care from them.
I have called this a vain quest of love before in a hallway thats passages were blurred
But I wonder now is this what I trully need to know that I am cared for?

Tell then is that not the reason I have no other that I am not cared for?
Tell then is that not why I am rejected becaues I am not cared for?
Tell then is that not the reason I feel hollow I am cared for?
Is that but simple answer so complex that I cannot have it but in one simple friend?
A true friend, a thing I never had at hand to call upon.
No wonder I feel so hollow.