Secrets

I'm not the person that you see in the frame,
but I ly even to the person in the mirror-like window.
Not even I know who the the over seer of I is,
for no-one wants to look in the eyes of a false person.

He doesn't know it but my heart is like a time clock,
and only when he tells me the truth does it waste time.
I want him to tell me everything I want to hear that second,
so please don't make me wait to get my heart broken.

I'm so pathetic that nobody will sit on the phone with me,
listen to me and keep me together before my body breaks again.
Nobody like to listen to a child of 6 that really 16,
a ten year difference that separates ten million teardrops.

Some just won't let me fall when I want to jump of the bridge,
but they never seem to ever want me go.
The thing that makes me go onward is really they way they talk,
because when they try to give me hope I do recieve it.

My secret is between the lines of the stanza I write,
every time I write I give out a moment I think.
My real secret is written down in my little notebook in my head,
and it really isn't a secret that I can't say them out loud.