poetry

Who I think you are …

I know you, but not all of you.

I know what makes you happy, sad, angry, mad,

And what triggers you.

But its not enough for me.

People tend to stop when they’ve reached maximum superficial knowledge over someone.

But even if you had told me the story of your life

A thousand times

I would still not be satisfied.

Nobody ever truly knows themselves and what they are capable of,

So its impossible for anyone else to know you for who you are,

Who you are becoming, and what you are capable of.

This might be in the positive sense of the word, but could also be vice versa.

I would have almost forgotten about this mentality Ive always had,

If it wasn’t for how you acted the other day.

You looked so grey, and as I tried to search for a hint of emotion within you,

I found nothing.

I found no love,

I found no happiness,

I found no anger.

All I saw was emptiness and an odd hint of self assurance.

And that night I was scared.

There was no passion,

It was so loveless.

But when I looked into your eyes, you didn’t seem to care.

It was just a rough act, and that was it.

And that scared me,

Because I thought I knew you, your type.

Always so loving and caring.

But that one day, one night,

Made me completely unsure.

And who you really are, or who you could turn out to be

Honestly petrifies me.

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