A poem about how maybe my real emotions only come out on paper. I don't know why...I don't FEEL depressed! I feel happy! but still, I always end up with...well...this.
On the outside, looking in, I smile on those who look down apon me, because they only know me on the ouside as well. They don't know how I think, what I feel, and so they write me off as emotionless, a doll with an ever-fading voice, slowly cascading into the pulls and pushes of the tides of society. I want to cry, but I do not. I want to hate, but somehow I've never learned how, so I simply accept. I want to scream, to yell, to prove that underneath my blank, calculating stare I want nothing more than to be told I am kind. My heart aches for what my head refuses to give; release through words. I am not sad, I am not scarred, so why? why do my words, my writings, always potray a side of me that even I do not know?