About you

Milling about, they stand,

they sit, not knowing,

not feeling,

but I can.

This one is angry,

that one is joyful;

I ask myself:

Is it me?

I move closer, joy feels good.

When the joy is gone

I wonder:

What have I done?

I must rekindle this joy;

I must soothe that anger,

because I know:

It must be me.

I amuse, I placate,

I abase myself, until finally

I realize:

I cannot help.

Now I am angry, or sad,

for I have no cure.

One day I'll know:

It’s not me,

It’s about you.