I remember light. That warm feeling on your skin. I remember happiness. Laughter bubbling over the brim. I want to be warm again. Feel the laughter from within. Why should I be hidden in the dark. Sitting in school writing in the park. I don't know how to adress a letter to me. Do I have to open my eyes before I can see? Red ink lets my feelings escape. Inner turmoil keeps my writing in shape. Looking with in myself all I see are shadows. Trying to show people what no one really knows. I'm afraid that I will never know myself, that my thoughts and memories will stay rotting on the shelf. Perhaps things are better left unsaid. Locked away unwritten, and never to be read. Am I wrong to be who I am? Sometimes I feel like I'm living a sham. Nobody knows who the real me is. I don't let people in to where she lives. Far too many masks hang on my wall. Each perfect face as fragile as a porcelain doll. What mask shall I wear today? It doesn't really matter, I mold them like clay. Sleep is such a luxury that I wish I knew. Instead I watch the flower pedals gather dew. Each sparkling reflection piercing my soul. All they reflect is a black darker than coal.