The Real Me

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Sometimes it’s hard to be the real me,

A mask of solitude, coldness, and shyness;

A cloak of invisibility, covering completely.

 

They think that I’m fine, that I need no one.

That I will live and die lonely,

A miser and a hag that has no fun.

 

What they don’t know of a girl that’s broken,

Disconnected from her mother,

her father gone to heaven.  

 

What they don’t know is that her front is a cry,

Her heart is torn,

A need and plead for someone to try.

 

She wants to laugh, play and feel alive,

But how can she really,

When everyone thinks that she must shrive.  

 

The real her wants a shoulder,

One that is caring and calm,

To do nothing but be her boulder.

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