All I have is filled notebooks.
Scribbled out pages.
Written poems,
And unspoken rages.

I could write it all.
It would come out true.
I could let the pencil fly.
But, somehow, my voice refuses to speak to you.

I fake a smile.
I'll write the story out at eve.
When you ask me to tell the truth,
I lie, say I am.
And then quickly leave.

My anger bursts in manuscript.
My tears streak the paper.
I wonder why,
When I'm writing I feel so much safer.

I had it all planned out.
I knew what to say.
But when it came the time?
Well, let's just say?
Tell you? I'm afraid I never may.

So, for now, I'll let the lead skim across the page.
I'll continue to show the real me in my notepad.
I won't let you ever know,
What it knows.
That I'm really truly sad.