a poem The stoic, the stone cold, the artifice are officious, superfluous attempts at being impervious. Like these words on the page. I am human. Not concrete not brick but similar to a plant not quite a sponge. I have a soul and feelings. Semi-permeable. You see me looking cold? You perceive me as hard? You believe I am a bitch? What you see, what you perceive, what you believe are my non-porous,