To You

I do not hide behind trees nor rocks or doors

Nor in the pages, I fill,

Never have done so.

Yet, long ago, I realized

People do not see me as their friend,

As such, I do not have any friend

To share my thoughts.

Almost all of my life

I have spent lost in books and my thoughts;

Very ordinary my life has been

With hardly any ripple raised.

Though I carry no false impression about myself,

The urge to write is strongly ingrained

And the care to express.

In the beginning, criticism did hurt,

Now, it is my evaluation that counts;

There are no suggestions for me to wave away

And I am happy.