I have nothing else -
Not one person close to me.
Only ever ostensibly known,
Via some overrated reality.
Truthfully, a manufactured facade-
Beneath, a much less pretty wasteland.
I want my real self to be known,
Have all my understandings understood.
First I must find the right words,
But they always pale in comparison.
There’s no real description, it seems
Of our inner-most workings,
Even here I pause as my depiction stutters.
I wish I could just bequeath my mind
And have my soul be exposed;
For someone to retrieve my thoughts
And need no explanation.
If I can’t emit my true visage,
If only I can see color,
Then I have no hope for completion,
And the loss is overwhelming.