You say caring
and loving
makes us vulnerable.

Well, I wear my weakness well.
Armor cracked,
I exposed myself.

I would not be
another commodity,
or come to see
all human beings
as separate entities.

So, when they weep
more cracks envelope me.
When their scars
are cut open again
I find myself bleeding
with all my human kin.

I have not perfected
the art of compassion,
but I will never completely master
the art of passing
a stranger in pain
without feeling
part of that sorrow.

Like Vincent did,
I go where the people are.
I see them in
their simple glory
and though I cannot paint
with brushes
I work the white canvass
with my words.

My heart melts.
I cry to myself,
and if you call it a weakness
then you are wearing
the wrong armor.---