Self Expression is Not a Cry For Help

I’m going to start speaking in riddle and rhyme,
for to lay my heart bare is personal crime.

I hide from the world,
ashamed- my true place,
I sit and spin fingers through memories of lace.

To hear my heart mourning begs perception acute.
It would be more appealing if it strummed as a lute.

Depression it’s not,
I admit it as truth,
but to express my longing is observed as uncouth.

Beauty and innocence,
a semblance of grace,
perhaps one day you’ll see my love chiseled face.