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.