I doubt the words on the page, correctly portrays, the images of the hand that wrote them.

Silent lips
Deaf ears, and
Blind eyes are
The merit of the creator as
He namelessly transmits his
Inner thoughts to his outer audience

My pen does not move for your applause
It moves for your focus
The thought pattern in this movement
Is more, and less, of my faceless existence

I can listen to what you want me to hear
But that doesn't mean that I am there, for that reason

I am a giver of many words and
A taker of many woes
I promise I could never fit a profile

The words I write are chameleon
They change to what you believe they say
The body I possess is chameleon
It changes to fit whatever pleasures you extract

No matter the length of time you stare
No matter how close you get
You will never find me.
XIN