the you that's only around
when no one else is.
why is it we all have different versions of ourselves
but keep the best for no one?
the truthsayer, the artist, the girl who smiles,
no one knows that person
they see the white lies that grow like weeds,
the flicker of creativity, a spark that never quite catches,
the pout.
why do we share the untrue facets of ourselves
when time and again, people have proved their worth?
there are only a handful of people close to knowing the real me -
they hear my scathing judgement calls
and are privy to my mind's inner workings
as well as my smile
but even they get the glossed-over version,
the annotations.
the complete works of me is a book locked away
there is only one keyholder
and she wont share its location once she's gone
these words are all you'll have
the closest you'll get to the real me
