The moon hangs

large and bright and eerie,

a blotch of blue and white paint

peaking out from an artists' quick portrayal

of midnight blue clouds.

Tonight

I feel small.

The sound of my own breath

is insincere.

In my heart,

past all the blind who look up to me,

I can see myself;

still a child.

These game of worth and leadership

confuse me to no end

but I can't seem to stop.

Apparently I know everything

about something I never believe I was,

and the word means different to me

than to those so eager to learn it.

My mother accused me

of always having

to be in total control.

Sometimes I wonder

if it's wrong when I agree.

I cringe to think

I'm being followed and copied.

But if not,

would I then be alone?

The clouds have moved,

breaking the portrait image.

The moon shines on.

I wonder,

is She aware?