Open Book

About the realization that I have once every few months.

It's hard to be the way I am,

and not a soul quite understands.

The things that led to "me" today,

the things that make me seem this way.

The things I've done, the things I've seen,

and all the places that I've been.

The hard times and the harder ones;

the memories, what's done is done.

These people want the best of me,

but no one takes the time to see:

I'm not the way that I should be.

I'm not ok, I'm hurting "me."

So while I'm making people happy

("Cheer me up, now. Make it snappy!")

I'm tearing myself up inside.

(Something I know how to hide.)

But no one gives a damn to look

past the cover to the book.

Nobody has time to read,

all they know is how to "see."

To see what I can do for them,

and how to use me til the end.

So til the end I'll give my all

with no one there to catch my fall.

Reviews

[Seshat Nidaba]

I have this realization too, that the real "me" is not the person I seem to "know". Good contemplation here, well done.