My hands are only my hands
When they grasp the wood of a pencil
My face is only my face
In the light of a reading lamp
My voice is only my voice
When it calls you unlike any other
My eyes are only my eyes
When they gaze laughingly at danger
My love is only my love
Because it is spoken in whispers
My joy is only my joy
Because of the crookedness of my smile
My angre is only my anger
Because of the ashes at my feet
My hate is only my hate
Because of your sweet tears
My fear is only my fear
Because of all these wasted years
I am a prime example
Of precise uniformity
and painful uniqueness