The Faces We Wear
I am weeping for existence
learning to live without reciprocity,
trading the limelight
for the hard comfort of solitude.
My insides are falling into themselves
colliding with indecision.
I'd like to believe
that in the deepest part of me
there is a piece of happiness
that is truly happy.
One day soon my creation
will shed the layers that keep it in tact.
I wish I didn't just make that prediction,
anticipation in poetry
often comes back to haunt me.
The face I've created for myself
is not who I am.
I am more accurately my poems
then you may think:
narcissistic and perverse.
The real me is a loner,
clam up inside when people are around.
If anyone has ever read my mind,
they'd tell you just how hideous I am.
I am my own
imaginary best friend.