Blind Spots

sonnet

Blind spots.

 

How strange it is that we can’t see

The faults and flaws that we possess

Which others can see easily

Despite our efforts to impress.

We hide behind the masks we wear.

The public face that we present.

We tend to wear it everywhere.

Sometimes it slips by accident.

Revealing much more than we know

To other folks observing us.

Things we aren’t aware we show.

Which satisfy the curious.

Who are desperate to see

If we are what we seem to be.

 

Wednesday, 07 March 2012