who we really are is a frustrating secret locked in chambers dark. filled with echoes repeating what we've been told, taught, and sold clicking away - vibrating in a pulse of rainfall that we do not feel. Sopping, sobbing, wet. who we really are eludes us every corner ghostlike, shadow shrouded wispy drawn sketched on page prepared but torn, tearful, and faded dropping away - ringing in tones of tools we can not carry. We touch nothing uninvited, withheld. who we are is right there in front of us. don't you see it? (c) 2017 douglas brent smith