Maybe It’s Just Me

I have feelings.
I have dreams.
I have hopes and wishes
and truths that scream.

I have hurt.
Scars that stay.
Fears I carry
day by day.

Somewhere along the way,
as I kept walking,
I looked around
and noticed—
no one’s talking.

People look inward
but not in a way
that leads to soul
or clears the gray.

Not deep in thought.
Not breaking ground.
Just circling loops
they never found.

They’re here—
but not awake.
A life half-lived
still learns to fake.

We’re more connected
than ever before—
but some don’t even notice
if their child’s walked through the door.

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s me.
Maybe I feel
what others don’t see.

Everything looks real,
but doesn’t feel right.
It’s too much noise,
and not enough light.

It’s more,
but it’s not enough.
People distracted
by surface stuff.

Everyone's masked—
not truth or lies.
Just silence
behind tired eyes.

And no one talks
about what they feel.
Not the raw.
Not the real.

Just today,
I barely said a word
to the woman
whose voice
I once always heard.

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I miss
what used to be—

when someone stayed
and meant it, too.
When opening up
was safe to do.

Now heads are down,
and hearts stay guarded.
It’s like we all
just...
halfway started.

So if we wake up
and still won’t look up,
what are we choosing
to become?

I don’t know.
Maybe it’s me.

Angela
—The voice beneath Daughter, Unwritten