Ending With San Francisco's Visitor

Far too often the piles cascade too high

I can't see the top of who I am

even though I chose each object,

each emotion,

and each action.

I can't understand the tip of the iceberg though

The first time the words touched my ears

I sobbed,

stricken on the ground.

The second time,

I cried 

and was inconsolable.

The third time

My existence is not for others

it does not heal the wounded 

my words are costume, foam steel at most.

I exist to live a life that continues the cycle

I'm a mirror of society that has painted