Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Neissa May 12
I walk the earth with the undying feeling of all my insecurities being engraved into my skin, beaming for everyone to see.

Every encounter with a human being i'm attacked by a deafening melody of inadequacy.

In a crowd my flaws inevitably come out, bounce off of every soul in the room and come back to burn my bones.

I am blinded by the reflection of my distorted self in every pair of eyes i come across.

Self consciousness - unpredictable, untamed, merciless - she shoots out of my brain, makes a trip around the world at the speed of light, comes back to stab me in the chest. Multiple times. I stand no chance.

I'm crippled. I'm vulnerable. I'm retreating behind my fragile little glass wall.

I'm trapped in my own hidy hole again.

I haven't even said "Hello" yet.
Shelly Woods Oct 2014
There is so much that I wish I could understand…
and so much more I wish I could explain.
The love I feel inside comes out distorted;
I feel trapped inside a prison—a prison called “what you see of me”.

Some are afraid of who they really are…
But I am afraid no one knows who I really am;
No one sees what is deep inside of me.
I am forever stuck inside perceptions—a prison called “what you see of me”.

I keep trying to improve; I keep trying to reconcile.
The distortions have become my prison; I am trapped inside hell.
If it is hell to you and it is hell for me… then what the hell am I doing?
believing I can change—a prison called “what you see of me”.

With every fail, the pain deepens…
Successes are too little; successes are too late.
How to receive love; How to give love…
when I must question everything that everybody sees?
How I say it (not what I believe) is the reason I reside in—a prison called “what you see of me”.

A description of me sounds like a description of my worst enemy.
A burden to society; A thorn to those who try to love me;
A hindrance to those who want to know me.
It isn’t the real me… it is the weathered walls of—a prison called “what you see of me”.

But isn’t perception another form of reality?
What does it matter what I am… if that is all anyone can see?
I suppose I know the answers; I just don’t know the why…
Why I continue to believe that I can change—a prison called “what you see of me”.

— The End —