(no subject)
When I walk down the streets, I wonder what other people think of me. I don't care, I just wonder. Do they see the me with the inquisitve eyes? Or do they see the me hiding behind my hair? Do they see the girl with the round face and the imperfect skin? Or do they see the girl who loves to laugh?
When they hear me speak, are they listening to the witty comments and precocious wisdom? Or do they only hear the string of four letter words and mediocre advice, solice for their own problems. If someone had never spoken to me, someone I sit next to on a lonely bus ride, would they see the exotic beauty my mother claims to, or the plain indifferent person I do?
Do they see me as awkward under my outward confidence, the most sincere liar. Do they think of me as harmess? Do girls take one look at me and smile to themselves? Do I want to give people this false sense of satisfaction?
Do they see the girl who cries at sad movies or do they see the unsmiling blank expressionless face of someone so preoccupied within themselves they can't be bothered with a smile to a stranger?
Whatever they see must not be what they're looking for, that at least I'm sure of.
When they hear me speak, are they listening to the witty comments and precocious wisdom? Or do they only hear the string of four letter words and mediocre advice, solice for their own problems. If someone had never spoken to me, someone I sit next to on a lonely bus ride, would they see the exotic beauty my mother claims to, or the plain indifferent person I do?
Do they see me as awkward under my outward confidence, the most sincere liar. Do they think of me as harmess? Do girls take one look at me and smile to themselves? Do I want to give people this false sense of satisfaction?
Do they see the girl who cries at sad movies or do they see the unsmiling blank expressionless face of someone so preoccupied within themselves they can't be bothered with a smile to a stranger?
Whatever they see must not be what they're looking for, that at least I'm sure of.