People are like books,
And we’re constantly judging each other.
People use their cover as a mask,
To hide their faces,
Mask their insecurities.
More often than not,
Don’t depict their true character.
But store it away,
What they wear,
All those pages,
All those words,
Are carefully read,
And plastered on.
Do we know why they’ve selected those?
Those pages aren’t very deep,
For they’re laying just above the skin.
On the inside?
The pages they’ve kept to themselves.
The pages they’ve only let few view.
The pages buried so deep,
That it’s hard for them to dig up.
Truly describe them.
What they’ve been through,
Not all that fluffy cotton candy crap.
Who they’ve lost,
The ones who’ve picked up and left,
Or those they lose to death.
Why they act the way they do.
The ones who are crying on the inside,
Force their smiles,
The ones who dread each day more than the last,
Have the happiest covers,
With rainbows and sunshine or smiley faces,
And plainest pages,
Left out to see.