Late one night after a long, wet journey home from trying and failing to get a girl's attention I stayed up to write a couple none-too-optimistic poems as the rain turned to hail on my skylight. Here's one of them:

Knowing Another

Nobody knows what it's like to be anybody else
I don't even know what it's like to be myself
I couldn't tell you if I tried
I've been trying for some time now but I'm reaching noone

And why should anybody take the time to study me
with all these things to do and points of view and sights to see?
There's not much to be gained beyond an interesting read

Even when a man has made his mark upon the world
so those who follow come to hear his story,
such tales will often focus on the circumstance
and actions which effected all the infamy or glory

Peculiar was the man himself, the world see through his eyes
was different from any other
Biographers imagine, postulate and wonder
They know as well as you or I
That fragile world crumbled on the very day he died

Ben Franklin was a man of very high esteem
So others look for insights into being like him
They'll find he wrote extensively on many things
Great successes, small details and smaller fails -
it seems his life was free of tragedies and travails
But Ben wrote what he wanted us to read
A man confesses small faults
to convince the world he has no great ones

We know mostly what he did
But what was in that head? Forever hid.

Well I, for one, would like to know
the way another feels
I tire of this mindset,
always insular and sealed

Someday I hope to find a friend
and grow so very close
that over years and decades
we might mutually disclose
the quirks and the embarrassments,
the biggest faults and fears,
the thoughts that make us smile inside,
the words that draw out tears.
And if, before we die
we come to truly understand
I'd count myself as fortunate
as any other man.