Do You Know Me?

I don't think you know me.
You act like you do, but it isn't true.
Maybe you want to...
to know me ya know,
but you don't right now
so please don't act like you do.

You act like you know me, it's true.
But you miss the slightest of cues.
The ins and outs that form the facade that you see,
the picture you've painted of me.
Like you can fit me in a box
to pull me out at your disposal
for your show of life
where I'm the puppet you've conceived.

You think you've got me all figured out.
Like you'll know my responses
before my lips ever part.
Like I'm the fairy tale princess with it all figured out,
Like I'm the Southern Belle that's perfected an art,
the art of political correctness and bless 'em.
But I'm not.

I'm not who you think I am.
I don't fit the box you've created,
the puppet you've conceived,
or the peg you've tapped into.

Sorry to break it to you,
but I'm anything but the image you've painted me.

I'm an introvert at heart
who has learned how to float like a butterfly around the social scene.
I wear my heart on my sleeve,
what a blessing and a curse,
a side you never see,
but that's me,
a special part that I can't deny (although I've tried).

I have an opinion on lots that
I keep close to my heart
as I fear I'll hurt others so it's bottled up tight.

I am a servant of sorts,
the one who struggles with "no,"
but struggles even more with opposing and disappointing others
or causing turmoil in groups.
I'm an interesting conformist.
I don't necessarily conform to the ways of the world,
but I conform to help meet the needs of those around me
despite what's best for me.
I follow through.

I'm a thinker,
I'm a planner,
but generally not a slacker.
I'm the one they call when they don't wanna worry.

I'm battered and I'm lost,
but you'd never know that.
It's veiled by a kind-spirit
that bends over backwards.

I'm lonely and confused,
but you'd never know it.
While I fly from circle to circle
with my eye-wide smile.

I'm broken and ashamed
but you'd never notice it.
You miss...oh what you miss...
the tears welling up,
the shivering inside,
the wringing of hands,
the words unspoken,
the heart that is broken.

You think you know me,
but do you even have a clue?




There was never an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior, there is a drama, a comedy, and a tragedy. --Mark Twain