. . . And what is within me?
Is it not but a reflection
Of the outside?
Or was it the other way around?
Within me, without me
Without a dream or a smile
Without a flicker of the morning sun
To brighten such a bleak night . . .
My insides are probably dark
Or hiding
For fear of finding themselves
Isn't that why we all hide?
Why we run?
Why we pound screaming in the night?
To escape ourselves.
Put on a happy face
OK Yes Ma'am Yes Sir Please Thank You
. . . But what is within me?