They say they know me but they don't;
Know one will ever know me the way I know myself
And maybe I like it that way.
Maybe I like to keep parts of myself a secret,
So I have something to tell.

They told me to tell myself.
How can I write myself on a page?
I am too complicated to put down in words;
I can only whine and write and you can read what I do.
I don't think you can read me; still, you can try.

I'll give you all I have, reader, because I want you to know
That I am not just another person who exists.
I am me, and I am the only me.
I can not be replaced, redone, recreated, or written.
No, I cannot be written.

The crystal tears that fall as I write exist
Because to give myself away scares me, and my honesty
Suprises me; usually I would not tell such.
My secrets are the locks on the vault that is me.
Openness is what will tear me apart if anything will.

I'm giving myself to you and the world.
Read me, try to figure me out.
I am still skeptical, I am - I mean, me, on a page?
No, it cannot be done; yet it has - has it?
Have I given enough of me away?

I am many things - I omit, I give and take.
I create and write and little bits of me run off with my stories.
Give me a chance to open up, give me time.
I will try to put myself out there if you'll let me.
I give - here I am.