I would rather have one person know and love me,
Versus having one hundred people love me and no one know me.
I really don't seek attention,
Just someone who wants to listen.
My trust is a very malleable thing.
And those whom I trust are limited.
I find myself not saying everything.
Hesitating out of fear.
I do not have a story.
And if I did,
The pages would be scattered to multiple people.
No single person really knows me.
I find that I ask the questions,
In order to deceive myself.
How could anyone know me?
When few even take the time to ask me a question?
The topic everyone knows best, is themselves.
Except for me.
Because unless someone is curious enough to ask,
Why should I bother wasting my breath?
Now sure,
Many people know of my problems.
But to say that you really know me,
Well, that would be foolish.
I have learned that trust is difficult.
I have learned that I bore others.
I have learned how conversation works.
I have learned that people don't listen.
Don't you dare,
Say that you,
Ever knew me.
Not after this.
You took the pages I handed you,
And tore them to bits.
Every word and emotion,
Of course it meant nothing!
It was a plea for help!
And yet I'm scolded for being a child.
Everything that I am is disappearing.
And this to you seems nothing.
My mistake for opening up.
My mistake for trusting.
My mistake for believing.
My mistake for hoping.
Loved by many.
Known collectively.
Not by one.
Not by any.
