i'm not a poet, but my brother is

You see right through to me. (That's a song, isn't it?)
Passed any rough outer edge, any blemish, any defect. . .
You see right through to me. The actual me, and not just in appearance.
It's like I'm there standing bare before you. And it's me.
Everything else is. . . well it just isn't to you.
But I run and then I pull away.
I suppose I don't really know how to respond.
And even if I had the knowledge
There would still be the problem of it being lived out of me.
Complicated me. One who wrestles.
But you see right through to me.
Through my complication. Through every frustration.
I didn't even hear the 'knocking'
Let me in. Let me in. It gently wispers.
I resist, then insist. What's my problem!?
Yet I can't begin to tell you how scary it is to let people in.
Especially when it just happens. . . they just
See right through to you. And poof!
They're in. And not only so,
But they love you for you.
Atleast for what they've seen thus far.
Thank you for seeing me. . . as you do.
But I'm still complicated.
My heart, a great onion
With layer after layer to patiently remove.
Each mingled with many tears. . .
Is it possible for a man to endure such a timely process
And still love what he will see?