What do you see when you look at me?

A girl, a face, a friend?

Inside I'm different, composed of words.

When writing, I'm me. I'm free.

What do you see when you look at me?

My past, my present, my future?

You see me now, but not within. 

My thoughts are safe, you'll let them be. 

If you gave me a chance, maybe you'd know.

Writing is my release, the time I can grow.

But I've never been asked, I'm afraid to show.

My thoughts could be criticized and no one would know. 

Inside I'm free, the real me. 

But when you look at me, what you do you see?