I find myself walking about this land,
With naught but a foreign book in my hand-
A book of my mind, which only I can understand.
For it is written in a language older than sand.

For such reason, nobody else can comprehend,
the words of my interior, impossibe for me to blend.
The scars inflicted by others are hard to mend.
However it seems my time with them is impossible not to spend.

My forgiveness is so easy to shine through,
but it is that very concept others seem to skew.
Taken for granted, my forgiveness they constantly woo.
The ones to think they know me best have no clue.

Though my exterior with the world tends to collide,
There is an entirely different language written on the inside.
It is a waste of breath when with others I confide,
The private feelings my exterior fails to describe.

So I journey this land aimlessly blind,
Knowing someone like myself is near impossible to find.
What I fail to understand, to myself my failures to remind,
Is to travel onward and not look back at the snakes I leave behind.