People tell me that I have a pretty smile.
But if it's fake, does it matter?

People tell me that I am beautiful.
But inside, I am blackened and charred from years of getting burned.

People tell me that I am strong.
But I don't consider, blocking out the pain "strong".

People tell me that I am brave.
But putting on a brave face, doesn't mean I am brave on the inside.

People tell me I will go places, that I will do great things someday.
But how can I? When I barely get through today?

People think that they know who I am, they think they know ME.
But no one does, no one really knows that on the inside,

I am a child's painting.
They first add blue, then yellow, then green, and red and orange and purple.

And in the end,
its just a blob of brown,

that was once all the colors of the rainbow.