I’ve always wondered
What it’s like to be myself
Openly and honest
And not hiding behind bookshelves
Waiting for someone to see
And let me into their heart.
A guy is knocking
At the front door again
Asking for that little girl
That I once was
And screaming at me
To go hide again
Behind those bookshelves
Because how dare I try
To be myself.
The puzzle's missing a piece,
It's not an important one;
just some small piece in the middle.
It's dark purple, and rough on the edges,
It's under the floorboards,
all frayed, and torn apart;
i'm looking through the boxes shoved in the corner of the attic
and i come across an old one marked random,
doesn't look like anyone's been through it,
but I start...
and i find that photograph;
Comments
I really love this poem, it's short but well encapsulates and portrays the concept, I wish I had a word for it but I don't, but I totally know what that's like. It's a very beautiful short poem.
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