Too mature to be classed as a child
Yet too inexperience to be seen as anything more
I crave someone to stay beside me
But I'm too proud to appear vulnerable

I distract myself with hobbies,
to fill the cavity in my chest
All the while my ribs feel like they're bursting
So I look for a means to pour out my heart

I can't think without giving words an uneven rhythm
But the paper infront of me remains blank
I like to keep things neat and tidy
Yet my poems are often messy

I prefer my own company
But I easily tire of being alone

I hate to let you see my cry
Yet I also hide my smile from your gaze
I've been told I "don't have any real feelings"
While struggling to hold back my tears