I'll fully admit it
I'm not an open book
Even if I wanted to be,
Some of the pages are glued shut

Those stuck pages
With the words forever hidden inside
Contain old secrets
Of the things that I can't share

Some of the pages I slathered with glue myself
Others were spilled on by the hurt of someone else
And I couldn't dry them fast enough
To save that bit of me

Other pages still are unreadable
Simply because they are no longer there
My unconscious ripped them out
In efforts to make my past seem better

Is it better though, to leave out some of the pain?
I can't get back the pages glued together
So should I keep all the rest I can?
Can a lack of painful memories lead to emptiness?

It gets harder to understand yourself
When you're not sure what's been lost,
To know why you are the way you are
When you can't even open you up to yourself