I sit on the edge of 8th street,

On a five acre, narrow land and in a home made of brick.

It seems quite and lonesome at first glance, A blip on the map small enough many don't think twice.

I watch cars go by everyday peering out my window ever so often,

And I think of only one thought everytime I see those cars fly by,

Do they really see? Do they see the landscaping my father worked so hard on?

Do they see my mother grabbing mail from our mailbox and ever think of it again?

I wonder when I go to school If the other student's have ever seen me,

Or if they just glanced and looked away never to think of me again.

I sit alone in my room at the strike of midnight seeing the stars

Really seeing the stars as beacons of hope.

I sit in the passenger seat of my mom's car and count the houses with the drapes closed,

1,2,4,8,22 and wonder why? Do they all see through blind eyes?

Selfishly seeing only what they chose to see at first glance never actually seeing the collateral beauty of this world that I see?

And then it occurs to me, What if the problem is not that they do not try to see,

But that they can't see blind but still with sight.

Seeing but never truly seeing,

Because they are seeing through blind eyes.

But then that raises another question if you can never truly see are you ever truly alive?