Please hear what I'm not saying, by unknown author.
Please hear what I'm not saying.
Don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face I wear. For I wear a mask, I wear a thousand masks, masks that I am afraid to take off, and none of them are me. Pretending is an art that's second nature to me, but don't be fooled --for god's sake, don't be fooled. I give you the impression that I am secure, that confidence is my name and coolness is my game, that believe me--please. My surface may be smooth, but my surface is my mask, my varying and ever concealing mask, Beneath lies no smugness, no complacence. Beneath it dwells the real me, in confusion and fear, in aloneness. But I hide this, I don't want anybody to know it. That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind. A nonchalant, sophisticated facade, to help me pretend; to shield me from the glance that followed by acceptance, if it is followed by love. It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself--from my own self-built prison walls--from the barriers that I so painstakingly erect. It's the only thing that will assure me of what I cannot assure myself--that I'm really worth something. But I don't tell you this, I don't dare. I'm afraid that you'll think less of me, that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me. I'm afraid that deep down I'm nothing, that I'm just no good, and that you will see this and reject me. So, I play my game, with a facade of assurance without and a trembling child within. And so begins the parade of masks; The glittering, but empty parade of masks; and my life becomes a front. I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk. I tell you everything that's really nothing, and nothing of what's crying within me. So when I'm going through my routine, please don't be fooled by what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying and what I'd like to be able to say honestly. I dislike the superficial game I'm playing--the superficial phony game. I'd like to be genuine and spontaneous and me, but you've got to help me. You've got to hold out your hand, even when that's the last thing I seem to want or need. Each time you've kind and gentle and encouraging; each time you try to understand because you really care; my heart begins to grow wings, very small wings, very feeble wings. With your sensitivity and sympathy and your power of understanding you can breath life into me. I want you to know how important you are to me. How you can be a creator of the person that is me if you choose to--please choose to. You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble; you alone conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls. The nearer you approach me, the blinder I may strike back, It's irrational, but despite what the book says about man, I am irrational. I fight against the very thing I cry out for, but I am told that love is stronger than strong walls--in this lies my hope--my only hope. Please try to beat down those walls with firm hands, but with gentle hands, for a child is very sensitive. Who am I? You may wonder. I am someone you know very well. I am every man you meet. I am every woman you meet. Please help me
Although I didn't write this poem, but when I was reading it, I realized that I should share this with everyone.