MaskWho am I?More importantly, who do I want people to think I am?Tears streak down my cheeks,my arms aching for somethingor someone to hold on to.An anchor of sorts, to tether meto this infernal world.I’m sure none of my heroes would have broken downor cried like this,like a child who’s lost.I’m sure they would have relished it,this feeling of an uncertain wanderer.would I be able to do that too?Because I need to find a new mask to hide behind –the previous lies crumbled on the floor,mere shards remaining from the imageI’d carved out for myself.Would someone be able to tell me what to do?Would I be able to ask anyone who to be?I’m sure the answer to this from anyone and everyone would be;“Be yourself.”But I don’t know who that is.Not now.Not anymore.I can’t ask anyone for help,though I desperately need it.For no one to suspect that I’m wearing a mask,I need to make it so original that one cannot q
What will you do?Through our livesWe get hurtWe get stepped onWe get brokenAll the timeWe feel emptyWe feel numbWe cry out for happinessAll the timeSome of us give upAnd end their livesSome endure all of itAnd live in painSome stand up tallAnd break the cycle of sufferingWhat will you do?
no light left to save these starsi.little breathsecho againstearth's laughterblooming a blouseof August blueagainst nude treeshands reaching forsettling sunsleep—ii.no light leftto save the starsthey too fell asleepiii.a gentle breeze banged and pulled along the curve of skypulling the silver of moon'mongst the horizonhanging with dandledlimbs.
EnoughSmart enoughto pretend to be something I'm notfor my own safetyProud enoughto not bash who I amfor approval
ThanksWhen did my inspiration fly south?It isn't winter anymore.Why can’t I gain the excitement I used too, about someone enjoying my work?Was I faking it all along?Shouldn't this mean more?This used to be my life, my escape, my everything.I have all these ideas.But when they come through I do not care to see the outcome in the readers.Instead of connecting, I simply say something useless.“Thanks”Instead of fighting back against those who dislike I just reply.No argument in sight.Didn't I used to care about the few fans I had?I used to explode with happiness when someone said “I connected with this!”Now it’s just, a bleak thanks, and I move on.
and if the author won't die, kill themdefine me in presences of absences,excesses of flesh carelessly filtered out and poured into tanks - the rank steam fueling my hounding of the x-rated dream,my mind an industrial unit, dystopian buffoonerywhere everyone is equally clueless:just what the hell do we produce?..but this won't do, this won't do -analyse any scumbag's snot,and you could find: orion & other nebulae, the skinny spectres of new york,
c l i c h e dshe's surrounding herself withstony facades to keep out the hungryand nail polish that seals her up tightwith paintbrushes to doodle on the wings of her childhood in every shade of greyand with purse-lipped superiorswho can'ttaste the rainbow,( not the onehidden behind her lashes,at least )and she tries so. hard.to make something romanticout of her sufferinguntil she realizesthat she's been living a cliché -the same one that she promised never to be again-( but