An empty soul.
That's what you might see.
Or, rather, what I think you'd see,
If you looked at my expression.
Part fear, part anger, part wonder.
Sometimes hatred. So, I'm not empty.
Maybe you can tell, but I'd like to think
Why? I don't want you to know me. I don't want to know you.
Not because of the good that would come of it,
But the pain.
I've heard of it enough, even seen it, but never felt it.
And I'd rather not know it.
Am I depriving myself? Others? I suppose.
But I've protected myself, and those who'd be hurt by me.
Because I've shut myself away.
But, someone in another world once said,
That's exactly the same as being dead.
So should I shed this shell of mine,
And spread my wings and fly?
I think, I know, I'd better, or this weary soul may die.