The Inner Portrait

She’s an artist of sorts

With her brushes and paints

She doesn’t use a canvas

Because Her image is faint

Around certain friends

She paints on a grin

So she can be popular,

So she cant fit in

With other friends

She’s loud and obscene

It’s the aim of the game

To be rowdy and mean

Close to her family,

She’s quiet and shy

They hardly take notice

If she is even nearby

When she’s with the guys

She’s a tease and a flirt

She gives and gives

Ignoring the hurt

The people around her

They hope and they pray

That they may be popular

Like her one day

 But when she’s alone

She breaks down and cries

For there is no answer

When she asks, “Who am I?”