Please Hear What I’m Not Saying


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, a thousand masks,
Masks that I’m afraid to take off,
And none of them is me.
Pretending is an art that’s second nature with me,
But don’t be fooled.
For God’s sake don’t be fooled.
I give you the impression that I’m secure,
That all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well
As without,
That confidence is my name and coolness is my game,
That the water’s calm and I’m in command,
And that I need no one.
But don’t believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
Ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion and fear and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don’t want anybody to know it.

I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear
Being exposed.
That’s why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
A nonchalant sophisticated façade,
To help me pretend.
To shield me from the glance that knows.
But such a glance is precisely my salvation.
My only hope and I know it.
That is, if it’s followed by acceptance,
If it’s followed by love.
It’s the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
From my own self-built prison walls,
From the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It’s the only thing that will assure me of what I can’t
Assure myself,
That I’m really worth something.

But I don’t tell you this. I don’t dare. I’m afraid to.
I’m afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
Will not be followed by love.
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, my desperate pretending game,
With a façade of assurance without
And a trembling child within.
So begins 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 everything,
Of what’s crying within me.
So when I’m going through my routine,
Do not be fooled by what I’m saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I’m not saying,
What I’d like to be able to say,
What for survival I need to say,
But what I can’t say.

I don’t like to hide.
I don’t like to play superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want 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.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes the blank stare of the
Breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you’re kind and gentle and encouraging,
Each time you try to understand because you really care,
My heart begins to grown wings,
Very small wings,
Very feeble wings,
But wings!
With your power to touch me into feeling
You can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.

I want you to know how important you are to me,
How you can be a creator – a honest-to-God creator –
Of the person that is me
If you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
You alone can remove my mask,
You alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic
And uncertainty, from my lonely prison,
If you choose to.
Please choose to. Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.

A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me
The blinder I may strike back.
It’s irrational, but despite what the books say about man,
Often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing that I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls,
And in this lies my 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.
For I am every man you meet
And I am every woman you meet.

~ Charles C. Finn


About unabashedhope

The name Unabashed Hope comes from my favorite poem by Emily Dickinson. Unabashed means not embarrassed, disconcerted or ashamed. I believe Emily's poem, Hope is the Thing with Feathers, says it best: Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

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