My bones are young,

But my mind is old,

Though my heart hasn't sung,

I feel so cold,

I see a story when others see a picture,

I fear that I may be the quarry,

Left to melt under their stricture

I tend to lose touch with reality,

I'm not sure where I go,

But I detach from normality,

I write what I cannot show,

My only true escape,

But those around me will never know,

For it's where my secrecy takes shape.